


The Company of Mad Baggins

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Asthma, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Politics, Dwarven beauty standards, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mercenaries, Military Training, Role Reversal, Swordplay, The Shire, Thorin POV, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin has lived twice, but the Quest for Erebor was not his first life, or his first attempt to reclaim his homeland. </p><p>Meet Thorin in his first life as King of Ered Luin, and disgrace of his line. Weakened by childhood illness, Thorin inherits the throne of Ered Luin after Thráin dies of old age. His first act is to hire the Company of Mad Baggins, led by none other than the dashing and dangerous Mad Bilbo Baggins himself, to reclaim the lost kingdom of Erebor.  </p><p>The story of how a king, a captain, and a wish changed the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennacorinth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennacorinth/gifts).



> So this monster of a fic has been in the works for over a year now. It began as a way to get my head out of the "Prayers to Broken Stone" place, because let's just say this fic is the opposite from that one in every way. Big, wide open spaces, a large cast, smut, and the whatever one would call the "opposite of slow burn" ;)
> 
> This story is what happens when "The Hobbit", "Puella Magi Madoka Magica", and "By the Sword: Kerowyn's Tale" by Mercedes Lackey, all get together in my head and have a little party. I've also been wanting to do a time travel, "someone goes back and fixes the past" story of my own for ages, with the added twist of exploring the Quest for Erebor as a second lifetime. What choices would Thorin have made in a previous life, that the events of the Quest are "fixing" things? This fic hopes to explore that. Special thanks to Jennacorinth for rekindling my interest in the story, and thebakerstboyskeeper for the fine beta work!
> 
> At the moment, this story has about 40,000 words written of what could well turn out to be over 100,000. I plan to release chapters every 1-2 weeks in order to stay ahead, but that means 11 are already written as of now, so we've got some time. I hope you enjoy the ride!

That first sight of him was one that would remain in Thorin’s memory across two lifetimes. The dirty little inn was swarming with ragged Men who eyed the retinue from Ered Luin with the wary glances of feral dogs, and Dwarves with wild beards that owed no allegiance to Durin’s Folk, yet knew a king when they saw one. A rustle ran through the crowd on silent currents at the sight of them, an unwelcome, foreboding one that set Thorin’s teeth on edge. There were other, shorter forms among them that Thorin took for children, though the question of why there were so many running barefoot through a crowded tavern was only a source of disgust for him at the time, and he did not dwell further on it. His thoughts were consumed with their errand here, and Balin’s assurance that they had found the one who would help them reclaim their homeland.

Yet for all that he was focused on the task, and getting in and out of the Prancing Pony as soon as possible, Thorin found himself distracted. There was a commotion in the center of the common room in front of the fire. A large, plush armchair stood in the corner, and in it was a figure swarmed by a circle of followers and companions, like a king holding court. He drew the eye like a lodestone, the firelight turning his fair hair into a halo of red and gold as he lounged with such an air of assured authority that Thorin could not help but think of Thrór in his glory days. He leaned forward then, his profile visible against the dappled shadows of the fire, pipe smoking in one hand as he looked up and caught sight of Thorin. Thorin’s breath hitched strangely as the figure gave Thorin what appeared to be a lazy once-over, and there was something sharp and intent hidden in that gaze. Then he turned to his companion, a dark haired Man, and laughed at some comment with the easy exuberance of one who is utterly comfortable in his own skin.

Dirty Men and feral Dwarves swarmed the room, yet this one seemed to feel no discomfort in their presence. On the contrary, they skirted him with wary respect and he appeared to return that respect, for he nodded on occasion to a passerby, imparting a word or a smile. Thorin, in the meantime, found the smell of sweat and grime overwhelming; he nearly gagged with the need to leave the room or find whoever it was Balin had dragged them here to find. He yanked his gaze away from the apparition, only a distraction anyway. What did he care about the king of a run-down little tavern? They had more important errands to attend to.

“Which of these is the one we seek?” Thorin said under his breath to Balin beside him.

“You’re looking at him,” Balin said back at normal volume. His words were swallowed by the cacophony of the tavern and Thorin’s head whipped back to the sight of the figure in the armchair, now studying him with a more critical eye. He was too small for a Man, too small for a Dwarf even, and beardless. One of the Halflings, if Thorin was any judge, but they were a rare people, all but wiped out some forty years before during the Fell Winter. It was unusual to see one at all, let alone one holding court in some rough tavern in Bree. Furthermore, he had heard they were a domestic folk, given to their gardens and their kitchens, and not ones to indulge in or even engage with the wider world.

“ _Him_?” Thorin hissed, and Balin chuckled under his breath.

“Look closer. Do you really doubt it, lad?” Balin said, giving Thorin a sidelong look. Thorin turned back and went silent at the sight.

A barmaid arrived to give a foaming pint to the Halfling in the armchair and he said something to her that made her laugh. Not just the polite laugh of a server, but a full and hearty guffaw that bent her shoulders. The Halfling seemed remarkably unperturbed that she was of the race of Men and towered above him, especially seated as he was. He accepted the drink with an exaggerated salute and turned back to his companions. Yet, as he did so, his gaze skated over Thorin once again, this time catching and holding a second longer than would be customary.

Thorin would have thought the obvious outcome would be for the Halfling to ignore him, expecting Thorin to come as a supplicant before him. He was more than a little bewildered as the Halfling paused, keeping eye contact as he set his pint deliberately aside on a nearby table, and gave a friendly wave, beckoning Thorin to come join him. Thorin stepped forward, mouth opening, brow furrowing in puzzlement at being the focus of the Halfing’s attention, when Balin strolled past him, offering a welcoming smile and wave of his own.

Of course, the look had not been for him. Balin had been the contact point - it was foolish to think otherwise - and now Balin was well ahead of him, followed by the rest of the retinue and threatening to leave Thorin behind. So what if that gaze had met his as if he were the only one in the room? Thorin knew that such a thing was common for those used to command, the ability to engage each member of a crowd as if they were alone.

“Balin, at your service,” Balin said, bowing before the Halfling as if his armchair were indeed a throne.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” the Halfling said, and jumped down from his seat to offer a sweeping bow. “So, this is the prince?” He turned, giving Thorin a closer look, and thought he must surely be going mad, because there seemed to be appreciation in that gaze. Baggins’ eyebrow rose as he gave Thorin a look that made his ears feel strangely hot as the Halfling turned back to Balin.

“A prince no longer, I am saddened to say,” Balin said in a sober tone. “We lost Thráin this past year. I present to you Thorin, son of Thráin, King of Ered Luin.”

“My sincerest condolences,” Baggins said, inclining his head to Thorin. “I knew Thráin when he ruled your folk, though he seemed to have some, shall we say, reservations about my kind? I tried to convince him otherwise.” He shrugged. “But some can be terribly stuffy about such things.”

At “his kind,” Thorin gave Balin a sharp, questioning look that the other Dwarf studiously avoided as he answered, “Alas, Thráin was a traditionalist. Otherwise we might have come sooner.”

“Ah yes, the problem of your lost mountain,” Baggins said. He took a seat back in the armchair, inviting Thorin and Balin to take two chairs opposite while their retinue cleared a space around them.

“Should we not go somewhere a bit more private?” Thorin muttered under his breath, eyeing the crowd that milled about the tavern.

“Maybe later,” Baggins said, and gave Thorin a saucy wink that trapped his next protest in his throat and brought heat rushing to his face, before he continued blithely, “It’s not as if the story isn’t common knowledge. Great Dwarven city, lots of gold, fell to the dragon some…two hundred years ago?”

“One hundred-eighty,” Thorin corrected, recovering somewhat and frowning to hear his ancestral homeland spoken of so flippantly.

“That was it. Though I hear old Smaug has been silent for quite some time now,” Baggins said, giving them a shrewd look. “Some might even begin to suspect he’s dead and all that gold left unguarded.”

Thorin nodded at this and could not stop himself from glancing again at the denizens of the tavern, searching for some sign that their interest had been piqued by the mention of the greatest hoard in Middle Earth lying exposed.

“Gentlemen!” Baggins said, calling his attention back. The Halfling offered an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, gentle-dwarves. I can field two-score rangers, made up of a dozen Hobbits, about two dozen tall folk, both men and women, three dwarves, and two elves.” He nodded to one of the figures beside him, who stood tall as a young tree; his cloak pulled up around his face, though a wisp of blond hair peaked out from the depths of his hood. He was deep in conversation with the young, dark-haired Man that Baggins had been laughing with only a moment before. “Our price is twenty percent of all profits, if any, regular payment for our time and travel expenses while we journey to your mountain, and winter quarters when we arrive. You can speak with my quartermaster to work out the supply details and price.

“Once we begin, I maintain sole command of my rangers at all times, and I decide how and when they go into battle, though I will defer to your advice and strategies if I deem them acceptable. No suicidal charges, especially not when it comes time for payment. I have seen such tricks before and I assure you, they will not be tolerated. However, since you seem the honorable sort, you will also have to be comfortable with the idea of sabotage, sneaking, and backstabbing on our say so, or there is no deal. My rangers all have their own weapons and armor, but you may offer Dwarf-forged arms and armor to defray the cost, if they accept. I assume these terms are reasonable?” Baggins settled back with a faint smile, opening his hands in a gesture of invitation for their response.

Thorin reeled at the quick and no-nonsense manner with which the Halfling had rattled off what would be a truly staggering sum. Twenty percent of the wealth of Erebor? Why, there were kingdoms of Men that could not boast so much! His hand closed around the back of Balin’s collar and he turned with a fixed grin towards the Halfling, saying through clenched teeth, “Will you excuse us?”

There was a twinkle of humor in the Halfling’s eye as he nodded and Thorin dragged Balin off his chair, the elderly Dwarf giving a grunt of protest as he was pulled beyond the ring of their retinue into a darkened corner of the musty bar.

<<What in Durin’s name were you thinking, Balin? Hiring _mercenaries_ to retake our home? >> Thorin snarled in Khuzdûl, still glancing over his shoulder to check that they were not overheard.

Balin sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. <<And what of it, lad?>>

<<You cannot expect me to allow a host of thieves and brigands into our sacred halls!>> Anger was rising in him, and outrage made all the more incandescent by Balin’s nonchalance.

<<They’re not brigands, they’re rangers. They just happen to charge money for their swords,>> Balin replied, tone placid and slow as if speaking to a child.

<<Erebor deserves better!>> Thorin growled.

<<And where will we get it, Thorin?>> Thorin was silent at this, and Balin was solemn as he continued. <<It’s been almost two hundred years. Most of the Dwarves in Ered Luin don’t even remember the Lonely Mountain.>>

<<The Dwarves of the Iron Hills—>>

<<Will not come, just as they have not before. They fear the dragon, as do any with common sense,>> Balin interrupted.

<<And you think a ragtag band led by a _Halfling_ will be better than an army of our kin? >> Thorin asked incredulously.

<<They are the best. Everyone agrees. What’s more important is they’re here and they’re available for hire, unlike Dáin.>> Balin’s lips twisted into a frown beneath his snowy beard. <<Thorin, they have a better chance of taking out the dragon than any in Middle Earth. What else would you suggest? That we take volunteers from Ered Luin? We’d be lucky to get a dozen, and that’s assuming even half of them  are warriors.>>

<<But… _him_? >> Thorin said, nodding towards Baggins. The Halfling in question was lounging in his armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, puffing contentedly at his pipe. Baggins raised a sardonic eyebrow as he caught Thorin’s eye. He already _knew_ that they were considering his offer!

<<They don’t call him Mad Baggins for nothing, lad. I wouldn’t have brought  us here if he didn’t come with the highest recommendation,>> Balin said and, with a huff, began walking back towards the circle of chairs.

<<Have you considered that he might be called ‘Mad’ for an entirely different reason? He looks more like a grocer than a soldier!>> Thorin called after Balin in Khuzdûl.

<<A grocer, indeed!>> came a second voice, and Thorin’s back stiffened as he recognized the Halfling speaking perfect Khuzdûl. He had taken his pipe from his teeth and was gesturing at Thorin with the stem. <<Tell me, Balin, is your king usually so rude before he signs a contract?>>

“There has been no agreement that we will sign anything,” Thorin said, switching back to Westron, but heat was rising in his cheeks and he gritted his teeth against it, already thoroughly fed up with how easily the Halfling had this effect on him. Balin gave him a chastening look.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s the curse of the line of Durin, they tend to be rather undiplomatic once riled. Still, he’s not as bad as his brother,” said Balin, taking his seat once again across from the Halfling.

“What a coincidence. I was just going to ask if this one had a brother,” Baggins remarked, with a glance at Thorin that, to his own bewildered eyes, was almost a leer.

The heat rose higher in Thorin’s cheeks as embarrassment gave way to _flustered_ embarrassment. “And what is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Only that I wonder who is ruling in your absence, your Majesty. Unless you’d like it to mean something else?” Baggins said, arching an eyebrow. “After all, it would be a shame to waste those looks on one who is so rude to someone he just met.”

“My brother Frerin is serving as regent and will be King of Ered Luin if I succeed in retaking Erebor,” Thorin said through gritted teeth, finally managing to imbue enough indignation into his voice to keep it steady, even as he felt his face might actually catch fire. He raised his chin and added with more dignity: “He will also be king if I fall.”

“At least your succession is squared away. That’s good,” Baggins said. “The Dwarves of Ered Luin are a great stabilizer for this region. I would hate to see them fall to infighting because their new king has a death wish. Balin, may I speak to His Majesty alone for a moment? I like to get to know who I’m working with before I consider a commission.”

Balin nodded and Baggins stood, taking Thorin’s elbow and drawing him into a corner by the fireplace. The spot was warm, but not nearly as hot as the rush from Baggins’ sudden proximity, his steady presence seeming to give off a force of its own even as he folded his arms, gesturing with one hand to his men to stay away from them.

“You already said you would accept,” Thorin protested.

Baggins looked at him then and Thorin rocked back on his heels. The easy humor was gone, leaving only cold calculation, sharp enough to cut stone. “And I have already heard you do not think mercenaries are good enough for your homeland.” Thorin opened his mouth to retort but Baggins cut him off. “Do not contradict me. I speak Sindarin, Khuzdûl, and enough Black Speech to get by. You may have been raised as the pampered prince, but I promise you are not nearly as clever as your courtiers let you think you are.”

“So you were eavesdropping?” Thorin growled.

“You’re asking us to risk our lives for those who would just as soon see us dead, and for a cause that is not our own. Of course I eavesdropped. You’d be surprised how many convenient details go unmentioned when negotiating the price of our services,” Baggins said, jaw tight. “Now, I heard that Dáin has refused to help you. Tell me why.”

“Why not ask Balin?” Thorin retorted. “Or any Dwarf in this bar. The reasons should be obvious.”

“Because at the end of the day, he is only your advisor. As king, all decisions go through you, not him. If you hire my Company, then you and I will be working together closely, and for quite some time. On this issue, your opinion is the only one that matters.”

“Perhaps it is the dragon,” Thorin said irritably, seeing Baggins’ point. “Perhaps it is the fact that the one item that could command  Dáin’s allegiance lies under Smaug’s feet. Our clans have been separated since the time of my great grandfather. I should not have been surprised he’d feel no special loyalty now when it comes to facing Smaug on our behalf.”

“Loyalty? You value it highly, then? That’s why you don’t want to hire us, thinking we are loyal only to coin,” Baggins said sharply. “Why can you not accept that the treasure might be incentive enough to see this quest through?”

“Because Erebor is our home,” Thorin snapped back. “And it deserves to be won back by those who care for it.”

“But the world is a messy place, and not inclined to give us what we want,” Baggins replied, gesturing to the wider tavern and taking in the hubbub of Men, Dwarves, and Halflings, the moonlight streaming in through dirty windows. “Though sometimes it has a way of giving us what we need, if we are willing to take it.” Baggins looked at him again, and some of the sharpness had diminished, though it was not entirely gone. “I know something of lost homes and so I am willing to help you. Though I’m afraid we can’t fight for the reasons you wish, we nonetheless will not waver, not unless you do first. But there is one thing you must tell me first.”

“What is it?” Thorin said warily.

“That you aren’t trying to die,” Baggins said bluntly. “You want to travel halfway across the world to slay a dragon that all the Dwarves of Erebor could not defeat while they still had their stronghold. Even your own kin are too afraid to lend you aid. So tell me you’re doing this because you want your home back, and not because you’re looking for an honorable way out. I know little of your life, your Majesty, but from what I’ve heard, you may have reasons of your own to consider leaving the throne to your brother as the best option, and I will not sacrifice my people so that you may have a heroic passing.”

Thorin flinched as if he had been struck, his mouth opening in immediate protest, but the Halfling’s gaze caught  and held him. He felt his throat close around the words.

“I thought so,” the Halfling said softly. “Think on it. There’s no need to answer now. Tomorrow, you will come with me to meet my rangers. Perhaps you will find enough there to call off the venture. Perhaps not. But know for my part, Thorin, that despite your rudeness, I am still very much interested in taking this contract.”

Thorin’s breath caught to hear his name for the first time on the lips of the Halfling. He could not say what it made him feel; shock, wariness, something nameless that lit him like a fire deep within. But his mind was awhirl with Baggins’ words that he was looking for a way to die, and how he could not deny it.

“I’m sorry,” Baggins said suddenly, and his whole manner softened, becoming at once open, genial, and more than a little sheepish. “I realize this is heavy talk for a first meeting. Under better circumstances, I would prefer to buy you a drink first. Which,” he looked over at the bar then back, “I’m happy to do now, if you’re interested.”

“Why are you doing this?” Thorin said, the breath leaving him in a rush as he finally found his voice.

“Buying you a drink?” Baggins said, glancing back. “Well, I should like to think that if nothing else comes of this business prospect, I might at least spend a pleasant evening with a handsome stranger.”

“That’s not—” Thorin said but the words were swallowed by a sort of flustered gurgling sound at the back of his throat. Baggins’ lips quirked at the edges and he gave Thorin a look that, he felt mad even thinking it, was almost _fond_.

“You mean facing a fire-breathing dragon halfway ‘round the world?” Baggins said. “Because I think it can be done. Call it overconfidence, but I have long wondered if a small, elite force can succeed where armies fail. I know what it’s like to have your home taken from you, and I’d like to help you take it back if I can.”

“For a fee,” Thorin said bitterly.

“Nothing in this world is free,” Baggins said. “But I think you will find our loyalty as unwavering as that of any army from the Iron Hills.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we earn our rating.
> 
> Also, this chapter has something of a soundtrack. If you’d like a bit of mood music, I wrote it to “Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off (Acoustic)” by Panic! At the Disco, though both the acoustic and the original version set the mood for their relationship in my mind throughout the story.

Later that night, Thorin lay in bed in the small room rented to him by the Prancing Pony. He’d been assured it was the finest they had to offer but its comfort hardly mattered as he stared at the beams of the ceiling, willing himself to sleep despite the distant sound of carousing in the common room that pushed long into the night. The memory of his conversation with the mercenary captain replayed in his mind, setting his teeth on edge at the thought of Erebor reclaimed by those who had no interest in its future, who desired only a cut from the wealth of his people. Erebor deserved a Dwarven army, armor shining as they retook their home in glory, braving the dragon in its ill-gotten den.

Yet, even Thorin had to admit that Baggins had a point, as did Balin. There was never any question that whichever force they found to retake the city would require payment, he was hardly a tyrant to conscript those who did not join willingly. Rather, it was the thought of the fickleness of mercenaries, those that would take their new wealth as well as their leave as soon as the task was achieved, selling their swords and loyalty to the next lord or cause without a second glance. And - he could admit in the darkness of his thoughts and the solitude of his empty bed - it was the thought of Baggins doing just that which made Thorin shift, fingers clenching at the sheets in irritation. He wanted the Halfling by his side, wanted to keep him, wanted to fight beside him, and not for coin.

Ridiculous thoughts. As ridiculous to imagine a mercenary fighting for loyalty as it was to imagine himself fighting at all. Or to imagine that the looks Baggins gave him were anything other than amusement at his appearance. The Halfling had said as much, after all, with his quips that could only be sly mockery, no matter how much he may wish otherwise.

The invitation to a drink had been the final straw. It was one matter to deal with underhanded references to his ugliness when, like a green lad, he wanted nothing more than to find sincerity in the Halfling’s words. Quite another to face that final joke at his expense. A ‘handsome stranger,’ indeed. Thorin had stormed back to his quarters, where at least he might find rest for when he was needed the next day, ‘first thing,’ at Baggins’ camp.

Thorin sighed, his mind drifting, closing his eyes as he willed his jaw to unclench. If he could just force himself to sleep, he might find some rest in oblivion, though his blood pounded from rage and something else. Some naïve, hopeful part of him imagining that Baggins was sincere in his admiration, or in anything, and that the invitation had been exactly what it was. Absurd, and yet… what if?

What if there had been heat in Baggins’ gaze when he found Thorin’s across the room? What if an entirely different meeting had taken place, alone, and with no business to impede them? Thorin closed his eyes and imagined the common room empty save for the two of them, and Baggins’ gaze finding not just his eyes but his lips as well, that once-over glance truly one of appreciation.

The thought crept up on Thorin unbidden and his hand slid beneath the loose drawstring of the trousers he wore to bed before he even realized what he was doing. Memory of his first meeting with Baggins clouded his mind, details altering to something not nearly so infuriating or bewildering. That welcoming smile was still there, the easy confidence and that glint of intensity in his eyes, and the first touch of Thorin’s hand down his cock brought to mind the way Baggins’ tongue had flickered over his lips as he spoke. Had that happened? Did it matter if, when his cock stirred at the image and the idle stroking of his hand, he was just imagining it?

They were alone in his mind, finding the very privacy Thorin had hoped for when Baggins winked and said, “Maybe later.” Nothing to stop him from leaning over the Halfling’s armchair to trace a finger down Baggins’ throat, tugging at that ridiculous scarf to pull him forward, silencing those quick words and clever tongue with a kiss.  But, of course, Baggins would not be perturbed. He would chuckle against Thorin’s lips, biting back fierce and hot, lashes sweeping closed as he pressed forward, and Thorin’s fingers would brush back those curls, tugging at them as they lost themselves in the clash of lips, tongue, and teeth.

Thorin considered through the haze shrouding his thoughts and the rising heat in his blood how light the Halfling would be, even for him. His cock was hard, heavy between his legs, while in his mind he thought how easy it could be to lift Baggins. Light as air, easy to carry as Thorin imagined lifting him from the armchair, hooking his arms beneath the Halfling’s knees. They may not even make it to the bedroom, Thorin thought, biting into his lip to hold back a groan, thinking of those bare legs wrapping around his waist, the way Baggins would arch his neck to encourage the hot kisses Thorin would nip and suck along his throat.

They may only get as far as the darkened hallways of the inn before he would press Baggins to the wall, desperate to steal more. Arrogance and mockery would be a distant memory as the Halfling gasped against his lips, cheeks and lips ruddy, and those gasps would turn to the same needy moans Thorin made in life, as in his imaginings he braced Baggins’ back against the plaster wall and freed a hand to massage the front of his trousers.

“I’m sorry I ever asked about the brother,” Baggins would say Ina hoarse voice, barely able to speak at all. Thorin would growl in agreement, teeth nipping at the soft flesh of Baggins’ throat before capturing his lips again, delving between them with his tongue until both were panting.

Somehow, they would pull free of that darkened corner and make it to the bedroom where he could deposit Baggins in his bed. Clothes would be quickly shed and Baggins would lie back, waiting for him with color high in his cheeks and eyes shadowed with need. Would Thorin be slow then? He was not sure he would be able to bear it, even as he teased out the pleasure with his hand, slowing his pace to match his intentions for the Halfling. There would be oil waiting by the bedside, within easy reach for the slow, delightful torment he had planned. They would both be close after the fumbling in the hallway, and here Thorin would get some of his own back, Baggins clutching at the pillow above his head as Thorin gently worked him open. He could imagine Baggins’ deep throated groan as he ground against Thorin’s fingers — Thorin’s own back arched at the thought as his hand sped up — and at the second finger Baggins would be begging Thorin to hurry in a voice thick with lust, shaking his head as if in denial as he was overwhelmed.

Patience, now that was the order of Thorin’s careful revenge as he worked Baggins into a lather, even as his own blood would be on fire with each breathy sound he wrenched from the Halfling. In his own bed, he took a deep breath, slowing his hand to mimic the control he would need to drive Baggins wild. Thorin’s cock throbbed, his eyes squeezed shut as he lost himself to his imaginings, hair fanned out on the pillow while his teeth worried his lips and his chest moved in deepening gasps.

He’d resist. He’d wait until those curls clung in sweaty ringlets to Baggins’ forehead and he was nearly insensate with bliss. His final begging pleas Thorin would grant, not nearly so aloof as he would pretend, and, in both the real word and his imaginings, his groan was heartfelt and wrenching as he imagined positioning himself and sliding into that fluttering heat.

Baggins would be tight. Small as he was, he might be almost too tight, and in his bed Thorin could not stop his moan at the thought, hand tightening around his cock to mimic how it would feel. It leaked pre-come as he worked it hard and fast and his eyelids fluttered, for a moment glimpsing the ceiling, the empty bed beside him, before he lost himself again in the sight of Baggins on his back, gripping the sheets, the pillow, finally reaching up to tug Thorin close, kisses hot, furious with teeth and low, keening noises. Thorin would be slow, steady at first, until the Halfling was driving back against him, grinding down and setting his own desperate pace. Baggins’ cock would be hot between them, pressing into Thorin’s belly until he took pity and encircled it with his hand, quick and expert. If Baggins had been wild before, he would be frantic now, arching against Thorin as he was driven over the edge. His whole body would seize and his head would fall back against the pillow as he cried out and came, shuddering around Thorin’s cock.

Thorin swore, the thought of Baggins’ cries of orgasm bringing him to his own climax. It struck him in waves, breath hissing between his teeth as he rode each one and saw Baggins coming apart beneath him. A final whimper and Thorin relaxed, shivering in the aftershocks against the pillows, come cooling in streaks on his stomach. Muzzying thoughts imagined Baggins collapsed much the same way, red faced and shaking, and a twinge of pleasure raced through Thorin causing him to clench at the sheets.

He lay there partially dozing, body relaxing into the mattress as the glow faded into a comfortable haze. His cock was now flaccid in his hand, and he would soon need to rise and clean himself before sleep. Just a moment longer before that, he thought as he drifted, heart rate slowing as his breath returned to normal, his lungs only a little tight from the exertion. That, at least, was a relief, and he was nearly comfortable enough to let sleep claim him, and damn the mess. Except that a tiny corner of his brain, usually the first to point out his many failures and disappointments, was signaling for Thorin’s attention.

His eyes popped open. For a long, dreadful moment Thorin could only stare at the beams of the ceiling as the cold wash of realization swept away the post-orgasmic glow like a spring flood.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was like stone, or so he’d thought, without desire or need of companionship. Like Dís, he’d never found a partner, and he’d come to accept this over the years as no surprise with his looks or illness and the many disasters of his earlier liaisons. He’d made do with books and music, and preparing for a kingship that was a disappointment to all.

Now he was fantasizing about a Halfling. Not just any Halfling either, but _that_ Halfling, who had mocked and joked at Thorin’s expense, then offered to aid him in reclaiming his home, albeit for a price.

And it had been fantastic.

Thorin pressed his clean hand to his eyes with a groan of an entirely different shade than those previous ones. He would have to face Baggins tomorrow in order to review their forces, watch that clever mouth as he spoke, stare at the back of that curly head and try not to let memories of this night show on his face, or the knowledge that he’d just rubbed off the best orgasm of his life just thinking about him.

A tremor ran through Thorin’s belly and straight to his groin at the mere thought, imagining how he might silence those lips with his own, how Baggins might react under his hand…

 _No_. Absolutely not. This was not the time, it was never going to be the time, and Thorin was going to wash off in the absolute coldest water he could find, and he would go to _sleep,_ and he would absolutely not think about Baggins again for the rest of the night!

Well, maybe once.

Oh Mahal, he was _screwed_.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the Company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of this story, the mood theme of Mad Baggins’ Company is “Paper Planes” by MIA ;)

Thorin slunk out of his room the next morning, tugging on his coat as he ducked around the corner into the common room of the Prancing Pony. The sun had crested the gently rolling hills that surrounded Bree, bathing the grimy windows and the room with streaks of dingy golden light. Dusty motes danced in the air and the bartender’s seat was empty.

Thorin stopped, fingers tangled up in his sleeve as he tried to fasten his vambraces one-handed. A closer inspection of the room revealed it was not entirely empty. There was one rumpled form curled up under the tavern bench. Looking about to see that there was really no other option, Thorin approached the figure, nudging the bundle of what looked like musty burlap and furs with one toe.

He jumped back as the form stirred with a thick groan and blinked up at him with bleary eyes. Thorin found himself looking down at a dwarf, one who possessed the most ridiculous mustache he’d ever laid eyes on, matched by an equally ridiculous hat that he pulled from his face and dropped on his head. He sat up, lips smacking as he yawned and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

“Wha- whaddya want?” the dwarf mumbled.

“I’m looking for Bag—for the Company of Mad Baggins. We were to meet first thing in the morning, yet I see no sign of them,” Thorin said, already feeling foolish for asking this ruffian for answers he clearly did not have.

“Well, where they are depends on the time,” the dwarf said as he pushed himself up  with the edge of the table and then plopped down on the bench that had recently served as his roof.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Thorin demanded, feeling his patience already tested.

The dwarf furrowed his brow at Thorin. “Are you thick? Depending on the time, they could be in one place,” he yawned hugely, the blast of his breath hitting Thorin with the rancid stench of stale beer. Thorin recoiled, taking a further step back as the dwarf continued, “Or… in another place. Further away. Who’s asking?”

“Thorin, son of Thráin and King of Ered Luin, if you must know,” Thorin said acidly, though the title seemed to have no effect on the dwarf. He only blinked at Thorin. “And it’s eight in the morning.”

“ _Eight?_ ” The dwarf’s eyes flew open, all traces of sleep and possible hangover washed away in a tide of pure terror. He leapt to his feet and seized Thorin by the wrist before he could stop him. “Oooh, Bilbo is going to kill me!” With that the dwarf took off, dragging Thorin behind him towards the door.

Thorin sputtered and cursed, pulling at the grip the dwarf had on his arm, just managing to haul them both to a stop before they stumbled over the threshold. “Where in Durin’s name are you taking us?”

The dwarf turned and gave him an incredulous look. “Why, to the camp of course! They’ll have started hours ago. What part of 'meet in the morning' didn’t you understand?” He tried to take off again, but Thorin pulled him back, already feeling his muscles protest as the stronger dwarf hauled at his arm so hard he felt it might rip off.

“Baggins only said first thing,” Thorin growled.

“Right, and dawn was an hour ago! He wants us there every day before sun-up. Ooh, he’s going to tie me up and roast me over a fire, and no mistake. The name’s Bofur, by the way. Are you ready to run, Majesty?”

Thorin stared.

“Good!” Bofur said, seizing Thorin’s arm and dashing into the muddy roads of Bree. He kicked dirt and other unmentionables up around them as he ran and dragged Thorin through the early morning crowds. The town was already awake, bustling with people and carts drawn by oxen that rumbled through the streets. Back at the Prancing Pony, Balin was no doubt waiting for Thorin to summon him. His retinue may very well sound an alarm once they learned he was missing.

Or they may not.

Thorin would have smacked a hand over his forehead in disbelief at the scene they created as Bofur hauled him down a side-street, furious chickens and outraged Men shouting after them as passed, but that hand was currently flapping behind him as they ran.

By the time they reached the edge of town, Thorin was completely out of breath. He could feel his lungs closing up, his chest tightening, and he dragged Bofur to a stop. He was unable to pull free of Bofur’s grip, and so only managed this by planting his feet and refusing to go forward. They nearly tumbled to the ground when they did stop and Thorin doubled over, free hand braced against his knee, wheezing as he struggled to force air into his lungs.

“Are you gonna live, Majesty?” Bofur said, looking concerned.

Moisture prickled in the corners of Thorin’s eyes as he gasped, but he lacked even the air to tell the other dwarf off. Slowly, the pressure in his chest lessened enough that he could whisper, “Weak lungs. I will be fine. Just…a moment.”

Another minute’s wheezing and it no longer felt as if his chest was bound in a vice. Still not trusting himself to speak, Thorin straightened and waved for Bofur to lead on, this time at a slower pace. The road out of the town wound into the green fields of Bree-land and down a dirt road about a mile’s distance to a cul-de-sac. There, by all appearances, was a small town of its own. A string of archery targets and several sparring rings set it apart and marked it clearly as a place of purpose rather than residence, despite the row of sturdy cottages. Even from this distance, Thorin could see that the sparring rings were occupied, as were the archery fields. Down the hill that led from the road were several figures, among them one crowned by a halo of familiar curls. Baggins did not appear to notice them as they crested the hill, too deep in conversation with possibly the largest dwarf Thorin had ever seen.

“Bombur!” Bofur waved as he shouted down to them. “I’ve got another one for the stew pots, just promise you’ll keep Bilbo off me!”

Thorin’s head whipped to the side as he stared at his guide, and any hope of a graceful entrance fell apart. Below, Baggins and Bombur turned to look at one another and, seeing no other solution, Thorin followed Bofur down the hillock to meet them.

“He seems a bit scrawny for a stew,” Bombur rumbled, looking Thorin up and down. There was a twinkle of humor in his eyes and a smile twitching behind the length of dense, orange beard braided into an impressive loop and tossed over his shoulder. How the dwarf could walk, much less fight in a mercenary company was a mystery to Thorin, but other than that, Bombur was the picture of ample Dwarven beauty from his solid frame to his snub nose and the luxurious thickness of his beard.

By comparison, Thorin felt as scrawny and unkempt as an alley cat. He was thin, lanky by Dwarven standards; his muscles lean where most dwarves put on bulk. True, his dark hair was long and beginning to show the silver streaks of respectable age, and he had the long Durin nose that some found attractive. However, his beard was trimmed short for the oath he had sworn after Erebor fell, in remembrance of the indignity of the burned beards suffered by his forefathers. A worthy gesture, all agreed, but he found himself stroking the stubble self-consciously at the sight of Bombur’s full beard. Even Bofur seemed a finer specimen than Thorin by comparison; though also lean, he at least had his mustache and braids. Not to mention, his presence in the Company meant he could fight, unlike Thorin. How Baggins would ever notice him with handsomer dwarves appearing out of the very woodwork…

Thorin’s eyes widened and he snatched his hand from his beard as if it burned, resolutely clasping them behind his back. He did his best to straighten and reclaim the tatters of his dignity. He was a king, after all - though he doubted he would ever become used to the title - and these dwarves were Baggins’ subordinates! Why, Baggins could not dally with either of them even if he wished, not without risking the chain of command. And as king, Thorin had a great deal to offer in terms of wealth and station. He could braid jewels into the Halfling’s hair, offer him all manner of treasures, and—

And he could _stop thinking about wooing the Halfling while standing around like a lack-witted idiot_.

“Good morning, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, clearing his throat. For once, those troublesome blushes did not plague him as he met the Halfing’s eye, a small blessing. Baggins’ cheeks were ruddy from the brisk morning breeze and Thorin made every attempt to look him in the eye as he spoke, very pointedly not thinking about his fantasies of the night before, and Baggins’ cheeks reddened for an entirely different reason.

“Very kind of you to finally join us, your Majesty,” Baggins said with a business-like nod to Thorin. Then he turned to Bofur. “And you too, Bofur. Be a dear and report for latrine duty today. I’m sure Estel will be glad of the break.”

“Aw, but Bilbo, it’s hardly my fault that no one woke me!” Bofur said.

“We _did_ try to wake you, three times. You told us to piss off,” Baggins snorted.

“I have absolutely no memory of this,” Bofur replied loftily. Baggins rolled his eyes and slapped Bofur on the back, pushing him towards the row of cottages and, presumably, the latrines.

“And make sure they’re downwind this time? We have royalty present,” Baggins called after Bofur as the dwarf wandered off grumbling. He then turned back to Thorin. “My apologies, Majesty, we thought you would come when you were ready. I see you’ve met Bofur, and this is his brother Bombur, the Company’s resident cook and, as it happens, architect.”

<<It is an honor to meet Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain and of Ered Luin,>> Bombur said, using the formal tense of Khuzdûl before offering Thorin a deep bow and switching back to Westron. “I hope you will forgive the stew comment. It was only a joke.”

“I was just discussing with Bombur how we might manage our supply lines through the Misty Mountains and around Mirkwood,” Baggins said, casting a glance at the red-haired Dwarf. “There is only so far that foraging can take us, and few settlements that can provide for forty soldiers in addition to whatever retinue you bring.”

“Fewer still that will offer us lodgings, if Rivendell _and_ the court at Mirkwood are off the list,” Bombur said mournfully. “I’m going to forget what it feels like to sleep in a bed by the time we get to Esgaroth.”

“It will only make the destination all the sweeter, my dear Bombur,” Baggins said, reaching up to clap a companionable hand on Bombur’s shoulder.

Thorin bristled at the gesture before he could stop himself, which leant to the edge in his voice. “We have not yet agreed to hire you,” he pointed out, earning a surprised look from both Baggins and Bombur. They exchanged a look before Baggins shrugged, releasing the dwarf and gesturing for Thorin to follow him.

“Let us only say: I am confident that you will change you mind before the day is out. Shall we?” said Baggins.

Bombur inclined his head in a short bow as Thorin followed Baggins further down the hill towards the archery range. From the road, Thorin had seen small figures practicing, but up close he could see they were indeed _small_. A half dozen Halflings practiced there with short bows, though at the far end was the taller figure of an elven maiden with waist-length auburn hair. Her back was turned to them as she shot arrow after arrow into the center of the target some hundred yards away.

“Every member of my company must know how to shoot,” Baggins explained as they walked. “This is Gorbadoc, and Drogo… I do hope you’re paying attention, I will expect you to remember all the names.” Thorin glanced away from the archers to give Baggins a startled look, but the Halfling shrugged and winked at him. “And here we have the pride of our ranged team, the peerless Lady Tauriel, late of the Woodland Realm.”

Baggins gave a short bow in the red-headed elf’s direction, and Thorin was surprised to see her perk up, placing the bow on the standing rack beside her once the final arrow was fired and walking towards them with easy grace to stand before Baggins, towering above the both of them. She snapped a quick salute, inclining her head as she looked down at the mercenary leader. “You called, sir?”

“Indeed,” Baggins replied with a short nod and a fond grin before his manner became all business. He cleared his throat. “We may need to skirt the edge of your homeland in the coming months, or possibly cut straight through. Do you think your old liege will allow it?”

Tauriel gave a wary glance at Thorin before her expression once again closed. “I’m not sure. He may forbid it on my account alone.”

Baggins sighed. “I was afraid of that. And with Estel here, Rivendell may be closed as well for anything short of an emergency. It may prove to be an uncomfortable journey.”

“Sir, if I may speak freely?” Tauriel said.

“Of course.”

“The others are wondering if we will take the road to Erebor. What would you have me tell them if they ask?”

Baggins gave Thorin a sidelong look. “Tell them they will know as soon as I do.”

Tauriel nodded, eyes flicking to Thorin and back. “Thank you, sir.”

“A moment, my lady,” Baggins said, and the elf maiden turned back. “Might we arrange a demonstration for our guest?”

The other Halflings were beginning to take notice of their conversation, pausing as they gathered arrows for another round of practice and casting glances between one another. They must have indeed made a sight, a Halfling such as Baggins in his waistcoat and red jacket, an Elven maid in green, and Thorin. Surely such a meeting of races was not a common one; then again, it may well be for the Company.

“Should I prepare the others?” Tauriel said, nodding at the Halflings.

“Just your skills will suffice,” Baggins said, and turned to Thorin. “Tauriel has commanded and trained our ranged unit since she joined us ten years ago. To this day, none can match her, but few mercenary companies can boast Elven-trained archers as we can.”

“Even I am no match for the prince of my homeland,” Tauriel demurred, but her eyes sparkled at the praise, and again Thorin could not help but observe fondness in the eyes of Baggins’ subordinates as they spoke with him.

“Modest as well.” Baggins grinned.

What followed was perhaps the most spectacular display of sharpshooting Thorin had ever witnessed. Dwarves did possess their own archers, but they tended to emphasize quantity rather than quality, sending a hail of arrows upon a besieging enemy to soften them up for a charge from the heavy infantry. Once the fighting became close, no warriors stayed behind to fire arrows, but all joined the thick of battle.

The Lady Tauriel, by contrast, began first with a rapid volley at the targets arrayed before them. The Halflings fell back to give her the right of way, and in the space of a breath she had put seven arrows into the heart of seven targets. Then she launched a second round, ending with a flourish of  two arrows set to the bow that she planted within a hairsbreadth of one another.

“Of course, these are fixed targets,” Baggins said over his shoulder at Thorin. He then picked up a stack of thin wooden discs from the edge of the range and said something in Sindarin to Tauriel. She nodded, then Baggins flicked the wooden discs into the air, sometimes one by one, sometimes a few at a time. Each was sent flying at different levels and in different directions. From the look of them, they were so light that a glancing blow from an arrow would send them skittering away, but each arrow connected solidly, even when they were only a thin edge from Tauriel’s angle. They fell, each neatly impaled through the center. By the time she finished those discs in the foreground, only one remained in the far distance, making a beeline for the row of trees beyond the camp.

Tauriel drew the bowstring to her ear, bright eyes narrowing. She took a single, steadying breath, and released on the exhale. The arrow flew, straight and true towards the target that was only a speck against the tree line. Thorin had thought it lost from sight and reach until it dropped from the sky.

“Thank you. That will do, my lady,” Baggins said. Tauriel dropped her stance, setting the bow aside and inclining her head to Baggins. Behind her, the Halflings had begun to move, jogging off to retrieve the discs and arrows.

“Smaug reputedly has a soft spot on his underside, close to the heart,” Baggins said to Thorin. “Tackling that with our ranged team is one of many strategies we have considered for taking the beast down.”

“Dragon slaying is a rather specialized field,” Thorin observed after they took their leave of Tauriel, walking across the wide field of the mercenary camp while activity buzzed around them. “How long have you been preparing for this, with only one dragon left south of the Grey Mountains?”

“Balin sent his first messenger some six months ago to explore the possibility of enlisting our services,” Baggins said. “We’ve been running drills ever since in preparation.”

“I should hate to think that I’m wasting all your time and effort should I refuse,” Thorin said dryly. With their conversation turned from implication and innuendo to hard facts, Thorin found himself relaxing and even managing some humor, especially now that the plaguing blushes no longer threatened. He contemplated the display he had just witnessed. On the surface, a single arrow seemed too fragile to take on a dragon’s scales. Then again, Thorin had seen a shot from a heavy longbow punch through Dwarven-made plate armor, and with the kind of precision afforded an elven archer to find the vulnerable spot, she could very well succeed where others failed. If she could get a clear shot.

“You’re not the only one with an interest in killing Smaug,” Baggins said. “As far as I’m concerned, there is a market for our skill somewhere. It’s only a question of who gets there first.”

Thorin stiffened at this, his jaw tightening. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Simply as I said, your Majesty. As much as we’d prefer to lend our talents to those with the best claim on the mountain, we are not in this for charity. Who rules Erebor once the dragon is dead is no concern of ours unless someone pays us to make it so. There are plenty of claims in that region for the wealth of the mountain that, while not as strong as yours, could be considered equally valid. Finders keepers, after all,” said Baggins. “Thranduil the Elvenking, the Master of Lake-town, even the Dwarves of the Iron Hills might make claim to a kingdom abandoned nearly two centuries, now that its population has long moved on and is living comfortably in the Blue Mountains. Some may even say that you have forfeited your interests there, should you not accept our aid.”

With each word, Thorin’s teeth ground until they felt they might crack. Only when his vision began to spot at the edges did he take a deep, furious breath, saying in a hiss, “Thieves and burglars, then? Why would I associate with any who are so… so… !”

“Mercenary?” Baggins said pleasantly, but his gaze was steely. “That we may be, but at least we are honest ones, and we make no claim to be anything other than what we are. True, we may be bought for coin by the highest bidder, but at least our motivations are clear. We will not deceive you, we have no hidden loyalty that may be subverted to betray you. We are interested in gold, yes, but for how many of your people would the same be true? We only ask for an established portion, mutually agreed upon by contract rather than force, paid out only in the event of our success. We are not out to steal what is yours, but payment is payment, whatever its source.” Baggins caught and held Thorin’s gaze, staring him down. Something in Thorin quailed at the ferocity of that look that carried within it the fires of fierce pride. Yet he kept his spine rigid, his face expressionless, for he too had pride of his own.

Baggins blinked first, his expression clearing and once again becoming a genial mask. And it _was_ a mask, Thorin realized, one he had not yet begun to understand, nor what lay in the depths beneath it.

“But what am I saying? Our tour is not yet over. If you will follow me this way?” Baggins said, gesturing for Thorin to follow him towards a triad of sparring rings near the edge of the trees. Thorin nodded silently, but anger made his tread heavy and he clung to it, willing it to burn away the fascination that still flowed through him, stubborn as water through a cave. And like such hidden streams, it seemed to pervade every inch of him despite his efforts to stopper it.

Had any other spoken so frankly of stealing Erebor away from its rightful claimants, Thorin might have drawn his blade on the spot. Instead, he found that he trusted Baggins against all better judgment, and the mercenary captain’s assurance that they would rather champion Thorin’s claim over any other. That corner of his mind was insistent, nudging at Thorin’s resolve to reclaim Erebor only with a Dwarven army at his back. It whispered that he had no such archers in his ranks, that no Dwarven army had faced a dragon in this Age and won. Erebor had been a fortress, with an army ready at the gates for Smaug’s ambush, at the very pinnacle of their strength when they suffered such a resounding defeat.

Might not indeed this well-trained band succeed where armies failed? Thorin could not yet say, but followed Baggins to his next demonstration.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay. The chapter was written, but I had a self-confidence hiccup and was agonizing over how much I should re-write. Overall though, I'm quite fond of this chapter, so I hope you enjoy.

The subsequent demonstrations were as impressive as that of Lady Tauriel, if each for their own reasons. A Halfling maiden that Baggins introduced as Eglantine Took threw knives at  a tree with such force that they buried to the hilt. Meanwhile her husband, Paladin Took, demonstrated how he organized their ranks.

Each individual Ranger in the Company knew the drills for a dozen different formations and signals. Thorin immediately recognized the basics of shield-wall formations with the turtle and the phalanx. More unusual was the Company’s ability to change their formation on a whistle from Paladin. They moved like well trained sheepdogs, scattering at one blast, reforming at a second, different patterns of tweets indicating that they should come at the enemy clockwise or counterclockwise.

Another signal meant “attack at will,” at which point it was up to the individual Ranger’s discretion to use his or her weapon of choice to take down the enemy as quickly as possible. They had three basic methods of retreat - as a clustered group, one by one, or every person for themselves - that could be modified further with signals depending on the situations. It was hard enough to get fresh troops to march in formation, and at least with dwarves there was the constant problem of discipline for it was against the nature of Thorin’s people to face the enemy in any manner but head-on; in the heat of battle their blood ran hot and no dwarf wanted to be the last to take on the enemy. It took long years and many hours of training to form a cool-headed shield wall that did not break apart at the first sight of the enemy. Yet these Rangers behaved more like an acrobatics troupe than infantry, sometimes anticipating Paladin’s signal even before he finished the series of gestures and whistles that indicated the next formation.

“Always had a head for figures, our Paladin,” Baggins said proudly after he thanked the other Halfling, who Thorin learned was his cousin. “Had things gone differently, he might well have become our Thain. He has a natural head for command.”

“And does that not come in conflict with yours?” Thorin asked. He saw little resemblance between Baggins and Paladin, save that both were Halflings and fair of hair. Paladin's features were more narrow and he wore a mischievous grin which negated any hope he might have to equal Baggins' solid air of command.

“Paladin is my successor if I should fall, but he has a weakness of over reliance on tactics. Often it is surprise as much as discipline that wins the day, as I have many times tried to instruct him,” Baggins said with a shrug.

“A bit of madness?” Thorin said with an arched eyebrow, and Baggins grinned knowingly in response.

“Indeed.”

Men and Halflings showed their expertise at camouflage, appearing  seemingly from nowhere beneath the brush at the forest’s edge and hiding up in the boughs  of trees where, had they wished, they could have shot down at  invaders while they were yet unawares.  “Much good it will do us in a cave,” Baggins had said before moving Thorin further on. “Still, my people are known for being light on their feet, and it’s possible that the smell of hobbit will be completely unknown to the dragon.”

From there, they watched the Rangers, both male and female of the race of Men who served as the heavy fighters of Baggins’ Company, as they drilled in formation. They wore leather jerkins and chain, no heavy plate, and a metal cap sewn with leather to hide the shine.

“We’re not a heavy infantry company,” Baggins explained. “With the number of Hobbits, we’ve no chance in toe-to-toe battle with an equal number force, and we use cavalry only as a last resort to support a full retreat. The Rangers prefer it this way in any case. They’re archers and swordsmen, not heavy dragoons like the vanguard down in Gondor.”

“Would this not be a weakness when facing Smaug?” Thorin said. As he did so, he could not help but look over the chainmail of the Rangers. It was made well enough, for Men, but to dwarven eyes it was bulky and the links crudely woven. That would need fixing.

“As I see it, heavy plate would only slow them down,” Baggins said. “Claws like meat-hooks, teeth like razors, as Bofur is fond of saying. ‘Twould go right through the finest steel. Then there’s the fire to consider. Slow, heavily armored knights are only neatly packaged, well-done snacks for him at the end of the day. No, better to be light and fast.”

Indeed, Thorin did not need telling. He had seen it, how metal could glow red-hot before melting around the one it was meant to protect. He cleared his throat.

“Well spoken, but your words do not sway me,” Thorin said. To acknowledge Baggins’ point about the vulnerability of heavily armored dwarves against the dragon felt like an act of disloyalty. “Even if we lack your agility, a dwarven force may be just as well trained.”

Perhaps he was no warrior, but Thorin liked to think he knew something of negotiations. He had haggled for their supplies during their year on the road over a century ago, when the dwarves of Erebor had made their winding way to Ered Luin. Lately, as king, he had needed to haggle over food and textiles, those goods of the fields whose production did not come naturally to dwarves. It would not do to look overly impressed by the prowess of the mercenaries. Thorin affected a bored expression and began casting his gaze back the way of Bree. If Balin had not come yet to check on him, it was likely because his retinue had guessed where he went.

Or they did not care. Thorin was under no illusions that he was not the favorite choice of any for the throne of Ered Luin. Yet even his illness might have been forgiven, were Frerin not so clearly the better choice. His younger brother was a dwarf’s dwarf: bulkier, stronger by far, and handsome. His fair hair was full and braided, as was his beard, for he had been out hunting the day the dragon attacked, and had not seen the horrors of the fire as Thorin had. It had not cut him so deeply, and so he had not shorn his beard as part of the oath to wear it short until the city be reclaimed, in memory of the indignity of the burned beards of their fathers. Though Thorin was praised for the gesture, it took no great vision or intelligence to see that other dwarves preferred the sight of his brother’s unblemished face. Frerin was a natural-born fighter and was perhaps the greatest warrior Durin’s Folk had seen in living memory, save perhaps for Dwalin, Frerin’s husband. Together, they were the most admired couple in the kingdom, and only an accident of birth meant Thorin inherited before him.

If Thorin were to fall on a hopeless quest to regain their ancestral homeland, it would be a death lamented in song for Ages to come. More than that, for some, it would be a welcome one. Thorin thought of this as his gaze wandered over the mercenary camp, and the bustle of figures that could well mean the difference between victory in the form of a second kingdom for the dwarves, or defeat. Whether taking or leaving the Company would give such a result, he could not yet say.

“I like to save the best for last,” Baggins said, walking towards a sparring ring at the center of the camp that they had passed by several times but never approached. A tall blond figure Thorin had taken for another Man was sparring with, of all things, a dwarf. The young, dark-haired Man from the night before was leaning over one of the fence posts, watching the two intently.

Baggins halted them just beyond the fence, pressing a finger to his lips for silence, and nodding for Thorin to watch. The two in the ring fought with wooden practice weapons, the dwarf’s in the form of a wickedly-curved doubled bladed axe. Thorin saw now that his opponent was an Elf and must be the second one that Baggins had spoken of the night before, the blond who had been in deep conversation with the young Man who now watched. He wore finely knit silvery chainmail that glinted like mithril in the spring sunlight. It was belted at the waist, with a white shirt beneath, but no tabard. The dwarf, by contrast, wore only ragged leathers. His black hair was streaked with white and his dark eyes squinted as he sized up his opponent.

Out of nowhere, the dwarf let loose the most unearthly shriek Thorin had ever heard. It raised the hair on the back of his neck, and he could only dimly make out, <The dwarves are upon you!> as the dwarf threw himself at the Elf. Yet, if Thorin had been expecting a heavy, overhand swing, he was mistaken.

The dwarf reversed his grip on the axe mid-swing, bringing it around like a club in a side swing that the Elf only just managed to block with his blade at the last moment. Thorin saw the wood of the practice blade shiver, a vibration passing down the Elf’s arm and straight through his body at the force of the blow. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the Elf sent the crossguard of his blade striking upward, knocking the axe up and back, retreating in a swooping step that brushed the ground behind him in a wide arc. His steps were smooth as he moved in circles around his foe.

The dwarf circled too, and once again struck. His heavy axe moved with such power and speed that Thorin reeled as he imagined the strength needed to move even a lighter wooden axe in such a flurry. The Elf’s blade moved like a striking snake, but he was on the defensive, redirecting the blows rather than blocking them, stepping wide to avoid the blows entirely whenever possible.

“It doesn’t matter how much he dodges, he’ll tire out before the dwarf does,” Thorin said smugly to Baggins.

“I doubt it,” Baggins said without looking at him, his eyes intent on the sparring match. “He has faced worse foes than Bifur. This isn’t a duel, it’s a lesson.”

“What kind of lesson would an elf have for a dwarf?” Thorin scoffed.

“Endurance,” Baggins said shortly. “Bifur is a berserker. I’ve seen him mop up a field of goblins single-handedly once the rage is upon him, but if it takes any longer than a half hour he’ll collapse. He’s strong, fast. He goes utterly mad when he fights. But no stamina at all while he’s in the rage. He’s damn good at what he does and not likely to change his style now, so the only way to improve is practice.”

Thorin turned back and saw the sparring match with new eyes. Most duels were over in a few minutes, even the very longest rarely taking longer than ten minutes once the circling ended and the fighting began, though it could feel like an age when one was in the fight. Or when one’s lungs were constantly on the point of giving out, as was Thorin's experience.

This one dragged on for twice that length. Even when Bifur’s periodic flurries came quick and hard, he could not seem to land a blow anywhere but against the Elf’s practice blade. This only served to madden him further, and for the first half hour his blows only grew heavier, his face red from fury, eyes glassy from going to whatever place the minds of berserkers went when overtaken by the bloodlust. The Elf’s pale eyebrows were drawn together in concentration. He was not taking the match lightly, but he seemed far more focused on avoidance and keeping Bifur moving than he was at retaliating.

The match ended as explosively as it began. With a final advance, Bifur moved in, raining strikes down on the Elf as if he were trying to physically cut his way inside his opponent’s guard. He nearly succeeded too, when he reversed his weapon and struck out with the butt of his axe at the Elf’s face. The Elf saw it coming and bent backwards to avoid it, which was his undoing, as Bifur swept his leg beneath the Elf to take him out at the knee.

Any other fighter would have gone down then. The Elf was off balance, his feet cut out from under him, falling, with no way to reclaim his balance. Then, somehow, he caught himself on his hands and shoulder blades, and sprang up again, landing on his feet, his sword at the ready. He and the dwarf faced one another over their blades. There was a pause, punctuated only by Bifur’s heavy breathing.

Then, slowly, the dwarf’s eyes crossed and slid back into his head as he fell into a heap on the ground.

“The other problem with berserkers,” Baggins said, clucking his tongue sympathetically. “The hangover.”

“Master Baggins!” the Elf looked up with a white grin. He leaned his practice sword against the rail and vaulted over the fence. When he landed, he towered over Thorin and even more so over Baggins. He had the spindly, elongated form of the Elves, unnaturally tall and lean. But there was a comeliness about his face that defied even dwarven expectations of beauty, as if he glowed with an inner light. Thorin had seen Elves before, but he had never found himself awestruck by one as he was now.

This one is old, Thorin realized. Far older than any I have known. Older than Tauriel, older than Thranduil. Maybe older than the Sun and Moon themselves. For with age, the flesh of Elves became thinner, more transparent, as if the light of the world passed through them, or so he had heard, and this one shined.

“Your Majesty, King Thorin, may I introduce to you the latest addition, and crowning recruit of our company,” Baggins said, “Master Glorfindel, late of Imladris.”

“And many places besides,” Glorfindel said with a laugh that was as free and joyous as the play of sunlight on water. “Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, King Thorin of Ered Luin.”

“Glorfindel?” Thorin said, thunderstruck. Even the most insular of dwarves knew that name, and the legend that surrounded it. “Surely not he who slew a Balrog?”

“The very same, though it was many years ago,” Glorfindel said, inclining his head. “And not a battle that I would wish to repeat.”

“But you would face a dragon?” Thorin said, raising an eyebrow. The Elf had an easy, friendly nature unusual for his kind. He did not seem to look down upon Thorin at all, and he found himself warming to this Elf lord of legend as quickly as he might another dwarf.

“It would not be the first,” Glorfindel said with a shrug. “And Imladris will sleep easier knowing that there are fewer of his kind in the world. I would consider it a privilege to be given such a chance.”

Thorin turned back to Baggins, who watched their exchange with a sly grin. “This is what you were waiting to show me,” Thorin accused. “That your company has gotten their hands on the Balrog-slayer.”

“I was hoping you’d be impressed,” Baggins said and actually preened under Thorin’s incredulous glare.

“This is why Balin contacted you…no, this is why you reached out to him,” Thorin growled as the pieces began to fit together. “You could not let such a prize go unused.”

“Excuse me, but I am still here,” Glorfindel said with some amusement. “I’d like to think I count as somewhat more than a object to be exclaimed over.”

“That is indeed the question,” Thorin said, turning to Glorfindel. “Why are you here? Why the secrecy?”

“We’ve hardly made a secret of it,” Baggins protested, but something about his expression had become fixed, less malleable than when he was laughing and comfortable, not that Thorin was watching Baggins’ face so closely.

“But you do not advertise his presence,” Thorin countered. “If you only sought profit, you would cry his name to the hills. That the great Glorfindel’s sword is available to hire would bring you prospects from around the world. But you did not tell me until I was already here, and even then you saved him for last, when I might have lost interest many times before. You waited until you were almost certain I would accept.”

Something was not as it seemed.

As Thorin spoke, his eyes scanned the camp. Great Elven lords of old did not join Ranger bands in the northern marches for sport. He espied the young Man from the night before, who had just now been watching the fight and listening in on their conversation, though not so close as to be obviously eavesdropping. What was more, the young Man still remained at the sparring ring, and had not gone rushing off once the duel was over. He was tall, even for their race, his dark hair long enough to brush his broad shoulders, and he was dressed in a leather jerkin that revealed a lanky frame, rangy and long-shanked, but carrying the promise of the bulk that came from a warrior’s life. The Man watched them now, an almost Elvish light in his blue, inquisitive eyes, and there was something about him that commanded attention, a stillness that was arresting. Thorin followed the youth’s gaze to the Elf in question.

“Him,” Thorin said, pointing. “He is the reason you are here.”

He was rewarded by the gratifying sight of catching Baggins off guard. Both Glorfindel and Baggins looked over their shoulders in shock at the young Man, who blinked to suddenly be the center of attention.

“An interesting idea. What makes you say that?” Baggins said, far too casually, as he turned back.

“You did not introduce him when we arrived, though you have made a point of naming every one of the soldiers in your company,” Thorin said, his voice growing stronger as he voiced each of the suspicions that had been growing in his mind. “He was with you last night, so you know him, you even joke with him, but he is not a servant, or you would not let him dally here watching your two best soldiers duel. He is here to learn, but a company like yours does not need farm boys. You only take career professionals, and he’s not off training with the others. So he is important. Perhaps he is a future leader, and so given the run of the camp, encouraged to be everywhere at once. He is not just learning to fight, but learning to manage and organize.”

“I would not say I get any kind of preferential treatment. Trotter here had me digging privies just this morning,” the youth said, so clearly caught that he made no further pretense of ignoring their conversation. His words were casual, but his voice already carried the low tones of adulthood. He appeared a solemn youth, weighed down by a graveness that Thorin knew well.

Royalty, Thorin’s mind supplied, and every inch of the youth’s bearing supported his instinct. He filed away the nickname, Trotter, the boy had used on Baggins for later. For now, he thought he could see the shape of the mystery at the heart of this company.

“Of course he did,” Thorin answered. “He must be hard on you, so the others do not become jealous of the manner in which you are singled out. You are here to learn what command is like at every level, just as I did as a young prince.”

Baggins eyed Thorin silently, this time with a deeper shade of appreciation, and indeed, of speculation in his gaze. He had managed to impress the mercenary leader, a thought Thorin dismissed quickly before it could overwhelm him and turn him into a stammering mess. He turned to Glorfindel instead, eyes narrowing.

“You have no need to work as a sell-sword. You’re here to protect him while he learns, and he is important enough to warrant the best protection his family…. no, the world, can offer. Master Baggins is using you too, however. As long as he has you, he will utilize your reputation to gain better contracts, but he cannot reveal your presence to anyone less than a certain prospect. Others would divine your purpose quickly enough, and they would wonder. Before long, they would know you protect something important: a future king.”

Thorin started at the sound of slow clapping and looked to see Baggins applauding with a wry expression. “Perhaps from now on we should keep you out of sight, Strider.”

“I can go unseen if I wish,” the Man replied. “Though I imagine it will be much easier when I no longer have a legend following me everywhere I go.” He added the last with a self-deprecating smirk.

“Soon enough, Estel. Too soon, by my reckoning,” Glorfindel said fondly, and then to Thorin, “We would thank you to keep this information to yourself, as you are by no means far from the mark. Yours is not the only lost throne in Middle Earth, and there are others far more precarious than yours.”

“Then why bring him here?” Thorin retorted. “Why do you trust this band with one so valued?” Baggins crossed his arms, looking up to give Glorfindel a frank look. Some silent communication passed between them, then Baggins shrugged, nodding for the elf to continue.

“We cannot hide Estel away forever,” Glorfindel explained. “One day he must learn not only to defend himself, but to lead. The Rangers of the North wait for his coming, and when he is ready, he will lead his own company. In the meantime, my lord holds Master Baggins in the highest esteem. Estel could have no better instructor in the art of command.”

“Your lord seems to place a great deal of trust in those who sell themselves for coin,” Thorin said, arching his eyebrow, but Glorfindel only shook his head.

“That you would say so only shows how little you know of Master Baggins. He is no mere sell-sword, and in these days of peril, those who look down upon mercenary bands such as his do so blindly.”

“How do you mean?” Thorin said. To sell one’s sword for coin was a way of life seen as little better than selling one’s body, and indeed the latter were only scorned amongst certain backwards realms of Men, while the former was almost universally reviled by all of Middle Earth’s great lords and ladies. At least, until they were needed.

“The days grow dark,” Glorfindel replied. “And for many, loyalty to a king is no longer an option to provide the strength of arms needed to defend themselves. Too many kingdoms and settlements have fallen, or diminished to the point where they cannot provide protection to their own fortresses, much less the surrounding lands. Why not then allow commoners to seek their own protection, and if they must receive gold in compensation, then why should they be scorned when they risk their lives for causes that are not always their own?” Glorfindel said.

“These are not words I would expect from an Elven lord who once fell in service to Gondolin,” Thorin remarked.

“That I have fought in service of a lord rather than for coin does not mean I scorn those who have no such option, and I mislike arrogance where I see it. The common view such lords hold for mercenaries is rank with hypocrisy, for many a kingdom began as little more than the protected lands of such a group. They  who would look down on those who live the life of a mercenary forget their roots, for those they scorn are little different from their own ancestors.”

“But may they not find a worthy lord and pledge their service if they wish to fight for a living?” Thorin countered, remembering the many arguments of his father with Balin against the use of such folk. Never would Ered Luin stoop so low, Thráin had said. It was the line of his pride drawn in the sand that though the dwarves of Erebor had lost much, they would not go to others to fight their battles for them.

Baggins snorted derisively. “What lord? Where, and how, would we be paid? Most petty kingdoms lack even the resources to pay their own house guard with any regularity, and only need more soldiers in times of crisis. That is when my company comes in, but their need for us does not stop them from looking down upon our kind from the start. As for taking such a lord over a seasonal company, many of us have families too, and homelands we are unwilling to give up merely for the respectability of fighting under a distant lord for honor instead of money. Even if such a lord is honorable, he could just as easily be a tyrant.”

“The fact is,” Glorfindel continued, “the northern wilds are overrun. Save for a few pockets such as Ered Luin, or Bree, there is no single lord this side of the Misty Mountains who can defend all the lands when orcs come down from Moria. The roads are dangerous, and in the absence of a king there are lesser folk, no less brave or noble, who train with the sword and band together to combine their strength. It is true that some are no better than brigands and give the rest a bad name, raiding villages when not seeking out a lord with some petty conflict to resolve. But there are others, like Master Baggins, as well regarded as any prince, whose only crime is that they serve no others but themselves and the interests of their companies.”

“My goodness,” Baggins said, blinking up at Glorfindel. “I feel I should be blushing. I had not realized we had so corrupted you to our way of thinking, Lord Glorfindel.”

“I relate only what I see, good Master Hobbit,” Glorfindel said with a kind smile to his diminutive commander. “I have served many over the course of my long years, and I should think I am a worthy enough judge of character.”

“And what of loyalty? What of serving a cause greater than oneself, striving for honor rather than base self-interest?” Thorin said hotly.

“We all seek our own self-interest, your Majesty,” said Baggins. That sharp look had returned, as if Thorin’s words had scraped away the genial outer shell to reveal a lingering hurt beneath that had hardened the Halfling, given him an edge like a blade. “I found it is safer to provide for the self-interest of all my people, rather than tax their love with empty honors and emptier bellies.”

An uncomfortable silence fell at that. Thorin’s cheeks were hot from the argument, but no less were his foundations shaken. There was reason indeed to what Baggins said, but Thráin was his father, and it was difficult to so quickly throw aside the wisdom of his words. And there was wisdom to Thráin’s views; even if Baggins’ Company was exemplary of their profession, there were many more known for raiding, for switching sides before the fight was over at the promise of greater payment, or even those who turned on their employers for some unknown slight. Thorin could not dismiss such tales either, even if he wavered in the face of the Balrog-slayer’s faith in this band.

Glorfindel cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder. “Estel, I believe it is now your turn in the ring.” Estel snapped to attention, and darted off to select a wooden practice sword from the rack beside the sparring arena. “He has the makings to be one of the greatest swordsmen alive. If not for the Doom of Man, he could very well exceed even the greatest of my people,” Glorfindel said as he watched the boy take his place in the ring. “Your Majesty, until next we meet.” With that ,Glorfindel nodded in farewell and went to join Estel, beginning first by taking the boy through a series of warm-up drills.

“We’d best get your cousin up before they get going,” Baggins said to Bombur, who had listened to the tour and even the argument with the sort of bored expression of those who had heard it many times before. Bombur nodded and, together, Baggins and he opened the gate into the ring, each taking Bifur by the arms and legs to drag him out. Bombur did so with the ease that came from a great deal of practice, though no sign of exertion crossed Baggins’ face as they pulled the heavy dwarf, still unconscious, out onto the grass and left him leaning against one of the fence posts.

Bifur snorted, mumbled something in Khuzdûl, and promptly began to snore.

“The rages take a great deal out of him,” Bombur said sympathetically, as if explaining to Thorin.

“I can see that,” Thorin said absently. His mind was still mulling over Glorfindel’s words. It would be easy to dismiss the exchange as some charade to gain his trust. How did he know the Elf was indeed who he said he was? As negotiations went, such an endorsement weighed the case heavily in Baggins’ favor, so much so that it could well be the result of trickery.

But he had the evidence with his own eyes, when the one who called himself Glorfindel fought a dwarven berserker without taking a single blow, and had seen that Estel was more than he appeared. Whoever Glorfindel’s lord was in Imladris, he must indeed have some faith in Baggins to have trusted him with the burden of Estel’s education.

“Perhaps you are as good as they say,” Thorin acknowledged. Baggins looked up from Bifur and strode back, looping his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and looking at Thorin expectantly.

Thorin noted again the bare, furry feet, the beardless face, the waistcoat and red jacket. He even had a scarf, for Durin’s sake. There was simply no imagining this Halfling as a leader of warriors. But then there was the easy manner in which he dispensed orders, his utter surety they would be obeyed. The fact was an Elf of legend respected him as a commander, and argued on his behalf. Thorin’s eyes lingered over the stubborn set of the chin, the flyaway curls, how Baggins’ eyes had shone with admiration as Thorin quickly worked out the truth of Glorfindel and Estel’s presence here. His heart was speeding up, a golden warmth worming its way through his core; he felt as if his breath was coming short just at the sight of him. “But even if you are, twenty percent of the wealth of Erebor is a ludicrous sum.”

“Without us, you may well get nothing at all,” Baggins reminded him, but there was humor returned to his voice and none of the heat of their earlier conversation. His eyes glinted, taking on the calculating shine of a born negotiator who sees that the game has begun.

“Even so, Erebor is the wealthiest of the living kingdoms in Middle Earth,” Thorin scoffed. “Ten percent will be more than enough to keep your company in comfort for seven generations to come.”

“Who says we wish only to live in comfort?” Baggins said, arching an eyebrow. “We have our own kingdoms to rebuild, Thorin, which will require at least nineteen percent.”

Thorin shook himself before the way Baggins spoke his name could go to his head. “Your own kingdoms? Do you intend to pave the streets with gold? With twelve percent you could rebuild Bree three times over, and that from pure marble.”

“It is not Bree that I plan to rebuild,” Baggins countered.

This gave Thorin pause. “So, this is why you need the gold? You have some other settlement in mind?”

“Not only a settlement to build, but to fortify. I intend to construct walls around the Company’s new home that will put Minas Tirith to shame.” Baggins’ gaze grew flinty. “Which is why we need no less than sixteen percent. If all goes well, then two great cities will be born out of Smaug’s bones.”

“You will never be able to get that much gold across the Misty Mountains,” Thorin said, but hesitated now as he considered Baggins’ purpose for the gold.

Yet, no matter how noble his intentions, the gold of Erebor was vast. However, thirteen was an unlucky number, and not the way Thorin wished to begin this venture. “Fourteen percent, that is my final offer, and you may choose from the jewels as well as the gold. Take my word for it, they are far more easily carried.”

“Fourteen percent?” Baggins mused aloud. He looked up at the sky, his nose gave a twitch, and he seemed to be making some quick calculations in his head. He looked back down and struck out his hand, “We have a deal.”

Thorin took his hand, paying as little attention as possible to the warm, dry skin and the scrape of sword calluses. Calluses, he had not considered those the night before, the subtle play of rough hands over his skin.  If his breath came momentarily hot and quick, he tried to hide it with a firm grip.

Thorin turned and surveyed the mercenary camp. His camp now, or their camp, the people who would help him take back his home. He immediately felt a sense of responsibility and ownership. They would not bleed out their lives on the rocks for him, or for Erebor. Mercenaries who would not be staying after Erebor was reclaimed they may be, but until then, they were his people, and as dear to him as any dwarf. They would not lose a single life, for Smaug had already taken more than Thorin would ever again allow. For the first time in his life, Thorin felt the swell of purpose that squared his shoulders and set his gaze to the horizon. Only then did it occur to him.

“You accepted the deal, and yet you did not ask again if I wish to die,” Thorin said cautiously to Baggins.

The smile that broke over Baggins’ face most certainly did not make Thorin’s knees weak. “I no longer have to. Glorfindel was a test,” Baggins said, looking sidelong at Thorin.

“What manner of test?” Thorin growled.

“A test of your resolve,” Baggins answered. “No matter what, no matter if you hated Elves with all the passion of Orcs or thought Smaug too great a foe for any alive, you would accept the Balrog-slayer to retake your home if you truly wished to take it. If you had refused, then I would have known you never truly wanted it in the first place.” Baggins regarded Thorin, now without the business-like calculation. For one of those rare moments, Thorin felt that he was being seen for himself, not for the son of Thráin, or as the weak King of Ered Luin. It drew his breath short and he knew he was utterly lost, utterly hopeless.

“So, what does this mean? What next?” Thorin said, and hoped the breathiness in his voice was not too obvious. But  he could not find it in himself to care, even if it was.

“We work out a timeline, gather our supplies, and set out before the end of spring, as I don’t fancy trying to cross the Misty Mountains any later than that,” Baggins said. “Before then, we begin periodic strategy sessions. Short-term matters at first, supply chains, camp follower management, training on the road, the usual. Supplement that with end-game strategy, negotiating with Esgaroth, how we will take on Smaug. You’d be surprised what periodic discussion brings out in preparation for such a campaign in terms of hidden doors and forgotten weaknesses. I already have a few projections for how we will make it across the mountains, and how we’ll conserve our strength once we arrive.”

“Confident of you,” Thorin remarked.

“That’s what you’re paying for,” Baggins shrugged. Then, without warning, his arm closed around Thorin’s shoulder, drawing him close. Thorin felt his face might catch fire at the sudden contact, at the smell of Baggins’ hair as he drew Thorin near.

“Thank you for this chance,” Baggins murmured, and Thorin heard, for the first time, some hesitation, a lowering of that mask of utter confidence. Baggins’ head tilted and he eyed Thorin. There was no cockiness in that gaze, only something open and honest with an edge of vulnerability that Thorin wanted nothing more than to kiss away. “And I am glad.”

“Why?” Thorin said, his voice low and soft.

Baggins only looked at Thorin for a long, measured moment. There was no change in his expression, his gaze did not even flicker, but remained fixed with a look full of knowing, and beneath that, the hint of an abiding grief. Then the expression shifted - Thorin felt he had just been invited to look for a moment behind the mask - and that moment had ended. Baggins gave a cheeky, confident grin, though his eyes remained fathomless. “Because I can finally buy you that drink I promised. Goodness knows, in a roundabout way you’re paying. Tonight at the Prancing Pony? I imagine dear old Balin will wish to hear the good news anyway.”

“I accept. Until later, then?” Thorin said, holding Baggins’ gaze, feeling for the first time that he could lock eyes with such a one and not feel lesser. Baggins nodded, releasing Thorin’s shoulder and with a single backward glance, returned in the direction of his soldiers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks once again to thebakerstboyskeeper and solartopia for the beta work!

It was a quarter to midnight, and Thorin still sat at the bar waiting for Baggins to appear. The day had been long and exhausting, even beyond his frantic run with Bofur to the camp that morning and the many hours of the tour. When Thorin returned to the Prancing Pony to make the announcement that they would indeed be hiring the mercenary company, he had met… Well, a great deal less surprise than he had anticipated. Balin simply nodded at the news, and began snapping orders to his assistant Ori. The first order of business was to draft a letter to the Ered Luin exchequer to set aside funds for the projected expenses, which Thorin could not help but note mysteriously seemed mostly written except for a few blank spaces for the  starting date of the venture, and the agreed percentage for the Company at the end.

The rest of the day was spent poring over the contract, passing it back and forth with Baggins’ people via runners, and planning for the campaign. In truth, there was very little of battle discussed in the making of battle plans. The vast majority was logistics, the art of moving people and supplies from one place to another in one piece, without exposing them to starvation, the elements, or in this case the goblins of the Misty Mountains. The last in particular proved a conundrum, as none had ever dared storm their stronghold of Moria, formerly the dwarven kingdom of Khazad-dûm, and so their numbers flourished unchecked, ranging far in every direction. Finding a path that did not cross through the most dangerous passes would already send the Company miles out of its way.

All of this was discussed without any sign of Baggins himself, except for his notations in the margins of the documents. During the course of the evening, Thorin was briefly introduced to Hamfast Gamgee, Baggins’ quartermaster, and spoke again with Paladin Took, his strategist. Others Thorin vaguely recognized from the tour popped in and out of the Prancing Pony, which Thorin’s retinue had made their makeshift offices, but dinner came and went while Thorin waited at the bar for the drink he was beginning to suspect, with a degree of bitterness that surprised even him, would never happen.

Balin, Ori, Glóin, and the rest of the retinue from Ered Luin had retired for the evening, and Thorin knew he should do the same. He had gone nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion as he stared into the crimson depths of his wineglass while the hours dragged on. The wine was some local vintage; the bartender told him, explaining how the Shire vineyards were all burned during the Fell Winter attacks all those years ago, but this was one of the best that had been salvaged from the wreckage. Thorin tasted it, finding it more than passable, and was a good way down the bottle when the door to the Prancing Pony swung open and a familiar head of curls appeared, just visible over the bar.

Thorin started, all weariness falling from his body at the sight, and he sat up straighter, rising half out of his barstool as he craned to look for the hobbit. Baggins rounded the corner and slowed, that familiar smile returning broad and genuine at the sight of him.

“Terribly sorry about that. I thought I could get away sooner, but the paperwork was not to be believed. I worried you might be gone by now.”

“Not at all, as you can see,” Thorin said, and gestured for Baggins to take the seat next to him. The wine had certainly conferred some benefit, mellowing the skittish, hopeful nervousness Thorin felt in Baggins’ presence into some semblance of calm, and about time too. It was a relief to finally feel himself again, and not like some callow young dwarfling with his first forge, all jittering nerves and anxious need to please.

Baggins graciously accepted the offered seat and by the time he was settled, the bartender had a wine glass of his own in front of him, without prompting or asking for payment. Baggins gave a grateful nod and took his first sip. “Ah, the old winyard. It used to belong to my family, you know. Not that I have the time for it, my cousin Primula runs it these days.”

“You seem to have many of those. Cousins, that is,” Thorin remarked.

Baggins shrugged. “All hobbits are related to some extent, especially now that there are so few of us.”

There it was again, that reference to the number of remaining hobbits. Dwarves were not a fertile people, but it was still puzzling to hear of an entire race the way Baggins spoke of them, as if there were only enough remaining to fill a single village. Baggins did not seem overly eager to discuss it further, having the resigned air of one avoiding an old story many times told.

“So tell me, how did old Balin take the news?” Baggins said, settling back to sip at his wine while Thorin spoke.

“Much as I am sure you expected,” Thorin said dryly. “He was not in the least surprised, and I would go so far as to suspect he had the paperwork prepared in advance. You have all taken me on quite the merry chase to bring me around to your way of thinking. I would almost suspect…” Thorin caught himself, taking a long sip of his wine to cover the hesitation. The tart liquid hit the back of his throat as he tossed it back too quickly and he winced. This was getting absolutely ridiculous.

“Suspect what?” Baggins said intently, clearly having no intention of letting the matter slide.

The wine had its hold on Thorin, and he realized belatedly that he probably should not have had quite so many glasses before Baggins arrived. Part of his mind warned that this was folly, while a bolder part made reckless and free by the warm glow in his stomach thought this was as good a time as any to get the matter out in the open. “May I ask if you are this brazen with all your clients, or do you only trot out the charm for your most lucrative prospects?”

“Brazen?” Baggins repeated, as if he had not heard correctly.

“Yes, brazen!” Thorin insisted. “You have been vocal enough with your teasing, unless you would claim it was only my imagination? One would even go so far as to say flir…” The word stuck in Thorin’s throat, and if a hole had opened beneath him in that moment, he would have gratefully crawled into it to die. But Baggins was looking at him, wide-eyed and expectant for him to finish the sentence. “ _Flirtatious_ ,” Thorin hissed.

“ _Flirtatious_?” Baggins gaped, by all appearances shocked and completely baffled. Thorin might have felt smug to have finally managed to fluster the mercenary leader the way he was so often flustered in return, were he not maddened that he must stutter his way through further explanation. It seemed Baggins was deliberately mocking him!

“You deny it?” Thorin said hotly. If he was forced to put further words to Baggins’ behavior and its effect on him, he was certain his face would actually catch alight.

“Not at all,” Baggins said with a huff. “But you are a Dwarf!”

A Dwarf.

Not a Halfling, or a Man, or an Elf, or whatever Baggins’ tastes ran to. A Dwarf, and therefore of no consideration at all. It was a sucker-punch to the gut, driving the air from Thorin’s lungs. He felt as if something small and fragile that hung in the place of his heart had shattered in his breast, and the warm glow in his stomach from the wine turned to a sickly, dead feeling. The drops yet on his tongue took the flavor of ash.

“I see,” Thorin said, and could not keep the hollowness from his tone. He turned back to his drink, unable to even look at Baggins. “My apologies, it appears I misunderstood. Forget I said anything.”

In some ways, it would be a relief. That teasing ray of hope and childish infatuation was better off nipped early in the bud. He would be able to approach the coming months with far more clarity if he were not mooning over one who was in some ways his partner, and in others his employee. The thought that it could have been anything more had been pure foolishness at best, at worst dangerous folly.

He would have to take another look at those contracts in the morning, to ensure he had not given away too much on foolish sentiment. Thorin rubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting his hand drop. Already he knew it would not be that simple, that the spark that was flaring so painfully within him whenever Baggins was near would not be so easily drowned by self-pity and a few glasses of wine.

A hand on his arm roused him from his thoughts, and Thorin turned to see Baggins watching him with a thoughtful frown. “Forgive _me_ ,” Baggins said. “Had I known… it seems I must reevaluate some of my opinions of your people.”

“Meaning?” Thorin said. He kept his voice neutral, if only to prevent himself from snapping. Hope flared painfully at Baggins words, but he knew from far longer experience that few ever revised their opinions of dwarves for the better in his presence.

“That one of your kind would notice such advances at all. You are  the first,” Baggins paused, expression shifting from baffled to thoughtful.

“And what does that mean?” Thorin said gruffly, not sure he wanted to know but that stubborn, niggling hope would not let him end the painful descent of the conversation, even when it seemed the wisest course.

“I do not deny I can be rather… forward, at times. My father, rest his soul, would no doubt be horrified, but then he was a proper gentlehobbit, unlike this thoroughly unrespectable son of his,” Baggins gave a self-deprecating snort, and sobered. “You must understand, the life of a mercenary does not afford a great deal of privacy, nor the luxury of a drawn-out courtship. A campaign may well take me half the year as far south as Gondor, then up to Rohan until autumn, and only back up to Bree for winter quartering. There is not a great deal of time along the way for any sort of lasting relationship, beyond passing friendship and the occasional tumble, if I’m lucky. My position within the company means the recruits are off limits, and I honestly prefer it that way, but the other problem should be immediately apparent.” Baggins raised both eyebrows and gestured to himself. At Thorin’s brow crinkling in confusion, Baggins flattened his hand and indicated the top of his curly head.

“Hobbit? Your kind never take an interest outside their own race or craft, Elves would rather exchange soulful letters for centuries before even considering something so forward as holding hands, and Men tend to have some reservations about one who barely reaches their waist. Not that it hasn’t come in handy a time or two,” Baggins mused, lost briefly in a memory that flashed his teeth in a thoughtful grin. “And of my own people, well, we’re quite free with our affections, but most that remain are family. My point is, I have never seen the value of keeping my interests a secret, as I must be forward with the time and limitations that I have, but you’ll understand I’m usually casting a net into empty waters.”

“So you were desperate,” Thorin said flatly. He would have thought it impossible for one with Baggins’ magnetism to have difficulty finding partners, but perhaps he should only have guessed as much if that eye turned to him even in jest. Baggins was desirable enough to be always on the look for new prospects, no matter how homely, and likely found any and all worth pursuing if only for the variety. Thorin remembered his wine, and finished it, hardly tasting what remained, before pouring out the rest of the bottle into his glass, filling it to the brim. This was getting worse by the minute. He preferred it when he thought Baggins had simply dismissed him out of hand for being a Dwarf.

“Desperate?” Baggins laughed. “Well, desperate only in a manner of speaking. Had I known Ered Luin was hiding such treasures in its mines, I might have found reason to look for trouble up there sooner!”

“I should think you have already seen the best of what Ered Luin has to offer,” Thorin grimaced. Baggins spread his free hand as he took a sip of his wine, inviting Thorin to continue. “What with the dwarves already in your company.”

Baggins choked and turned his head away quickly, pounding a hand against his chest as he coughed and sputtered, only just managing to swallow the wine. His eyes were watery and his voice hoarse when he exclaimed, “You mean _Bofur_?”

“And Bombur, and Bifur,” Thorin said, his voice dropping to a growl. Uncertainty at Baggins’ reaction was shifting around in his gut in a way that felt mysteriously like butterflies. “Bombur especially would be swarmed with suitors if he ever returned to the Blue Mountains.”

“ _Bombur_?”

“No dwarf could ask for a lovelier partner, should they have the good fortune of finding a match in one another,” Thorin said earnestly. “I certainly would stand no chance of catching the eye of such a one, even with my title.”

“ _You_ would not stand a chance…?” Baggins said and he was actually gaping. His face went through a dizzying array of emotions, from humor to incredulity, and on into accusation. “If this is some odd dwarven joke—?”

“I never joke,” Thorin said, looking Baggins dead in the eye. The hobbit’s lip twitch and he threw back his head in great peals of laughter. Only then did it occur to Thorin that he had meant to add _on such an important matter_.

“I have no trouble believing that,” Baggins said, wiping at his eye. “Hrmph, apologies.” His nose twitched and he ducked his head, his lips moving as he forced them to straighten. “It’s just, if you expect me to believe you’re somehow _ugly_ by any standard, then I—”

Thorin’s expression grew stony. It was bad enough to be born with an illness that kept him from most dwarven crafts. Weak lungs meant it was impossible for him to go down into mines, or to stand the heat of the forges. Fighting was out of the question, and sparring was an agony. He had nearly died as a child trying to force himself to run up the snowy slopes of Erebor with the other children. Thorin tried to make up for his weaknesses by dedicating himself to other crafts, music and the histories of his people, but it was never enough. To be born ugly as well, spindly and small, with a lean face barely salvaged by the Durin nose, had been an insult added to a long list of injuries.

“Oh…oh my goodness, you are serious. I’m sorry I just…never would have guessed,” Baggins said, the joviality that came with his fit of laughter sliding from his face.

“I would thank you not to mock me further on this subject,” Thorin growled.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Baggins said fervently. “But I would ask you to forgive me for my surprise. You should understand that by the only standards that matter to _me_ , you are…”

“What?”

“…Quite simply the most radiant creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Baggins stopped, as he must have seen the expression on Thorin’s face. Thunderstruck would not have begun to describe it. His breath had stopped in his chest and a peculiar energy felt as if it coursed through every inch of his body, paralyzing him, as if he truly had been struck by lightning.

Baggins expression softened, became wondering. “Do you really find that so extraordinary?”

There was really no answer for that which Thorin could give, because his throat had closed, choking off his breath. He turned to his wine glass for some salvation, for some moment’s grace while he composed himself. Baggins words were reaching inside him and loosened something that had been clenched inside so long he had forgotten he bore it. He knew it was foolish, he told himself so every day that the pitying looks, the fact that no one had ever looked upon on him with interest, much less desire, was of no importance. The wine was not enough to clear his throat, in fact as he swallowed it Thorin realized with no little horror that his vision was blurring, and he looked up to the lamps of the tavern until the lights no longer wavered. But Baggins was still watching him, silent and patient, and he knew he must say something or reveal his shameful reaction.

“I… simply never expected to hear it from one such as you,” Thorin said, his voice thick.

“You mean a hobbit?” Baggins said with a self-deprecating laugh. “No, I can’t imagine that one of my kind would ever be your first choice. It was why I thought my flirtations were harmless enough. One can always hope to get lucky, but I fully understood that it was the highest flight of fancy to expect any interest in return.”

“No, that’s not what I…” Thorin said desperately. Words failed him, he had no experience with what to do in moments like this. Baggins seemed convinced that his advances had been hopeless and therefore harmless, and Thorin lacked the words to tell him that the thought that one of such easy confidence, the natural leader he had never been, who could send Thorin’s blood rushing with a glance could never be _unwelcome_ , it was simply that it could not be _believed_.

Thorin fumbled, trying to find some way to express all the words that were welling up on his tongue. “I just never expected…” finally with a frustrated groan that was almost a snarl, he looped his finger through the opening of Baggin’s shirt and tugged him forward, pressing their lips together.

Thorin’s kiss was dry, inexpert, and fumbling. It had been long since the last time, and there had been no passion in it then, only curiosity and hollow disappointment after his partner left in the middle of the night, only confirming that he was a dwarf destined for solitude. But this was different, Thorin knew he wanted this, and hoped to convey in the kiss the message of his failed words.

Then, like a blow, it occurred to him: he did not know if this advance was welcome. If he had forced himself onto Baggins, who could surely gut him as easily as look at him, and Thorin would not resist if he did. Thorin recoiled, readying a breath for apologies, the chill of horror sweeping him at what he might have just done from wine and lust and his own damned inexperience with what to do with the roiling heat pooling within him.

Baggins made a startled noise of protest as Thorin pulled away and suddenly he was kissing Thorin _back_. His hands slipped behind Thorin’s neck, fingers twining into his hair to pull him closer. Thorin groaned at the dry brush of the sword calluses along his skin as Baggins deepened the kiss, running his tongue along Thorin’s lips, demanding entrance. Thorin’s breath came hot and fast as he opened his mouth to oblige. He tasted wine, on his own lips and Baggins’, sweet and tantalizing. Thorin heart sped up and he felt a sickening lurch that he would somehow do this wrong, that he would betray himself with clumsiness.

Fears that were quickly swept away as Baggins slid from his bar stool and onto Thorin’s lap. Thorin’s hands quickly moved to support Baggins’ hips and steady him, while his free hand cupped the side of Thorin’s face as he deepened the kiss, the tips of his fingers brushing Thorin’s short beard.

Baggins ground into his lap and Thorin’s toes curled at the wave of lust that swept him crown to foot, catching his breath and setting fire to his veins. His hand dug harder into Baggins’ hips, untucking the shirt and threading his broad hand under the waistcoat and jacket to the soft skin beneath. Deceptively soft, he could feel solid muscle as well, a swordsman’s strength at the hips, but hardly chiseled. Like dwarves, hobbits ran to stouter figures and Baggins was by no means lean the way Thorin was. Thorin groaned against his lips as he rubbed his hands over the enticing body that met him there, and only distantly hoped that the heat of Baggins’ touch was as much from lust as his was, for his arousal must be obvious.

Clearly it was, because Baggins ground harder into his lap. At that point any lingering thought abandoned Thorin. Like his fantasies, but so very different at the same time. Baggins did not yield to him as Thorin had imagined, rather he met each touch with another of his own, equal in its force, hands massaging themselves into the back of Thorin’s neck, as he pulled him closer.

“Well,” Baggins said, breaking the kiss. His lips were red, his cheeks flushed, and eyes shining. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Impatient, aren’t we?” Thorin said, his voice breathy and hoarse. “It has only been a day since I first thought to do that.” Baggins chuckled and Thorin could not resist pressing another kiss to the underside of his jaw. The heat that warmed him had become a bonfire, it was all he could do to keep from sweeping the Halfling into his arms and into his bed in one motion. Though from the size of Baggins’ pupils and color in his cheeks, he did not seem completely averse to the idea.

“I do hope that played no role in your agreeing to offer us a contract,” Baggins said lightly, giving him a sidelong look.

“And if it did?” Thorin said. He meant it as a joke, but Baggins’ grin vanished, and though the flush was still high in his cheeks and his eyes glassy with lust, they suddenly darkened for another reason.

“Then I would cancel it without a second thought,” Baggins said, his tone hard and expression now unyielding. “A dalliance may sweeten our time on the road, but I’ll not drag forty men and women over the Misty Mountains just to give a lover the pleasure of my company.”

“It may have given you better terms, but rest assured I will be checking that in the morning. You can expect to see my runner before noon with those notes,” said Thorin dryly, holding up a hand to mollify him. “But you judged aright, it was the Balrog slayer, not your considerable charm that finally turned my head.”

Baggins gave a relieved laugh, pressing a quick peck to Thorin’s lips that he had only just begun to respond to when the Halfling  _slid off his lap_. Baggins landed easily on the ground and looked up at Thorin while the dwarf gaped, astounded by the sudden absence.

“Well,” Baggins said with an over-arm stretch, “In that case, I’m off to bed. You should do the same, we start at the same time tomorrow morning.”

“But—” Thorin said blankly, hazy mind still struggling to process how not a moment before, Baggins had ground into his lap and kissed him until he saw stars. It could not be a figment of his imagination, for Baggins’ lips were still red and debauched, his color high and his pupils blown wide. But Halfling shrugged it off as if it were nothing.

Baggins paused and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I saw the wine bottle. If you’re still interested in the morning, you know where to find me. But I’ll not start this off with something you might regret. Furthermore,” the hunger came back to his eyes, and he looked Thorin up-and-down with open appreciation. “If you are still interested then, I’d like to take my time with you.”

“Dawn is still many hours off,” Thorin said, leaning in to growl the words into Baggins’ ear.

“As I said, not enough time at all,” Baggins said, and easily slipped free of Thorin’s range. He stopped just at the door of the tavern before turning once more. “Until tomorrow,” he said, and vanished, leaving Thorin cold, tipsy, and more than a little bewildered in the middle of an empty common room.


	6. Chapter 6

“Why ‘Mad’ Baggins?”

“What was that, lad?” Balin said, looking up for the most recent iteration of the contract.

Thorin stood against the wall, his arms folded as he waited for Balin to correct the latest round of addendums for the official conscription of the Company of Mad Baggins for the Quest for Erebor. It was eight in the morning, but they had been working since dawn, Thorin studying the concessions to the mercenary band that he had approved the day before with a jaundiced and critical eye. There was still time, the contract would not be finalized until the end of the week, but the memory of being left cold and alone in the tavern, feeling more than a little ridiculous and humiliated, certainly made it easier to drive a hard bargain.

“From your description I was expecting a lunatic, but I’ve seen no signs of madness in him,” Thorin explained. “So, why ‘Mad’ Baggins?”

Balin’s face screwed up with confusion. “How should I know?”

Thorin sighed, and Balin turned back to his scroll. A few minutes later another thought occurred to him.

“Is it not a matter of common knowledge? If it were based on some deed in battle then perhaps others would know. What do you think?” Thorin said.

Balin shrugged and leaned in closer to the contract. More silence passed, punctuated only by the scratching of Balin’s quill.

“Perhaps—”

Balin gave an exasperated grunt and looked up, glaring at Thorin. “Lad, if you’re so curious, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Why would I do that?” Thorin said, blinking in confusion.

Balin gave him a long, measured look. “I always said when it happened it would take us all by surprise. Still, I never would have thought …” Balin sighed. “Thorin, I’ll not tell you to be careful, you aren’t a child anymore and haven’t been for a long time. New as it may be, I have faith in your instincts. Your brother did well enough, after all.”

“My brother… _what_?” Thorin said, wondering when exactly this conversation had gotten away from him.  

“This is the last draft of the contract, as far as I’m concerned. If you’ll give me five minutes of silence, I can send you along with it to their camp.”

“There is still work to be done here,” Thorin protested.

“Once these notations are added you’ll have to review the troops in any case, it's more efficient to send you there with it,” Balin said, then his eyes took on a gleam of good-humored mischief. “Unless you’d like me to send along a runner? Could be a few hours before Baggins will be back this way, busy as he is with the travel arrangements down at their camp…”

“I’ll take it,” Thorin said, reaching for the contract, which Balin snatched back.

“Then let me _finish_ it, and for Durin’s sake if not my own, be _quiet_!”

* * *

Still uncertain what had caused Balin’s outburst, Thorin left the Prancing Pony with the final draft of the contract wrapped up in one hand and made his way to the mercenary camp he had last seen the day before. The sun was up, burning away the last of the morning’s chill and the day was developing into a fine one, warm with the promise of summer.

Thorin found the camp abustle when he arrived, though the Rangers were not scattered to their stations as they had been the day before. The Company as a whole appeared to be doing some sort of line drill, Paladin Took directing their movements with that odd shepherd’s whistle of his. They were a strange bunch to observe, with dwarves and hobbits scattered amongst the taller forms of Men. Thorin also caught sight of the fair hair of Glorfindel and Tauriel’s red, packed in amongst the ranks as if they were only common soldiers. He scanned the camp, looking for a shorter, familiar head of bronze curls and espied him off to the side, apparently in deep conversation with Hamfast Gamgee, the quartermaster, while keeping half an eye on the drills. Baggins had a pipe cupped idly in one hand, taking occasional puffs as he nodded and listened intently to Master Gamgee’s words.

Thorin tried to ignore the little leap of his heart at the sight, shifting the scroll from a hand gone suddenly clammy. Then, with squared shoulders and a reminder that he was indeed king, albeit for only a few months, Thorin descended the hill to Baggins’ side.

Baggins caught sight of him as he approached, waving Thorin over with the hand holding the pipe, then nodded to dismiss Hamfast. “It’s not our usual fare,” Baggins said as Thorin drew alongside, pointing to the collected Rangers with the pipe's stem. “We’re far better suited to stealth and skirmishes, but you’d be surprised at what a solid shield wall can do to the enemy’s morale.”

“Seems you’d only be presenting Smaug with a bigger target,” Thorin said, and felt a little wash of relief to be on such a neutral topic, even as his pulse leapt when Baggins’ fingers brushed his, accepting the contract from his hand. Baggins bit down on his pipe to hold it in place as he unfurled the scroll, scanning it quickly before rolling it up again and tucking it in the inner pocket of his coat without further comment.

“It’s not Smaug I’m worried about,” Baggins said, taking the pipe from between his teeth. “There could be plenty of opportunities to find trouble on the way there.”

“You’re worried about orcs?” Thorin said.

“And Men,” Baggins said. “Not everyone takes kindly to a troupe of armed Rangers passing over their lands. Usually we’ve come and gone before attracting much notice, but some idiots see a small army as an excuse to prove themselves.”

Thorin looked out over the drilling Rangers and wondered who could possibly stupid enough for that. All of them gleamed with a mix of chainmail and leather armor, and even Tauriel had switched out her bow for a sword and shield. They were light, fast, and coordinated,  Rangers of different heights working together seamlessly, cutting, ducking and parrying.

“So tell me, your Majesty, have you done much fighting?”

“I beg your pardon?” Thorin said with a start. Baggins was regarding him with a look of somewhat amused appraisal.

“Axe or sword, which is your weapon of choice?” Baggins said, arching an eyebrow. “I’ve found with your people it’s usually one or the other.”

Thorin went silent, throat working, and then ducked his head, unable to meet Baggins' eye. “Neither,” Thorin said quietly. “At least, not with any skill.”

Baggins’ mouth dropped open and he nearly lost his pipe as it dangled there. He then snatched it up and gave it a furious puff, brows drawn together as he said, “You mean to tell me you’re a dwarf king who doesn’t know how to fight?"

“A childhood illness,” Thorin muttered, feeling the break and clatter of shame within him, and yet with it a rush of relief. Always it was an agony to explain the realities of his childhood to an outsider, but at least he only had to do it once. Usually. "Weak lungs. I very nearly did not survive infancy. Physical pursuits were too great a risk for the crown prince, so sparring was kept only to the basic. I nearly died once simply playing with the other children in the snow.”

“Is this still the case?” Baggins said, looking at Thorin closely, as if trying to divine mysteries beneath his skin.

“Why should it not be? I may manage my symptoms, staying well away from the forges and not pushing myself too hard, but that is all when there is no cure.” Thorin said, and there was bitterness in his voice that even centuries of knowing his limitations could not erase.

“A dwarf that cannot forge or fight,” Baggins mused. “This is why you must reclaim the mountain?”

“An oversimplification,” Thorin murmured.

“And why you care little if something should fell you along the way,” Baggins continued, musing as if to himself. “You have spent your whole life waiting to succumb to your illness, why not at least fall in pursuit of something greater, rather than simply waiting for death to take you?”

Thorin’s breath froze in his throat and he felt as if he had been stabbed, that in a few simple words Baggins had seen to the heart of it. With the contract tucked in Baggins’ pocket, he wondered if it was too late for the Halfling to cancel the agreement entirely, advertising for all to hear of Thorin’s shame, the true reason for his pursuit of the mountain.

He was not expecting to have Baggins suddenly embrace him. Thorin stared down in shock at the bronze curls pressed against his chest, the Halfling bent over with his… ear? Yes, his ear pressed against Thorin’s chest.

“Take a deep breath for me,” Baggins said.

Thorin did so but more to draw breath and exclaim, “What are you—!”

“Shhh,” Baggins said, and appeared to be listening. “Now another.”

Thorin acquiesced, this time without protest, puzzled as to what the Halfling was listening for, but willing to remain silent. There was nothing that seemed flirtatious or lustful about the Halfling’s proximity, in fact he was all business as he listened to Thorin breathing, his brow drawn together in concentration. Then he stood, shaking his head, and turned to the practicing Rangers.

“Strider, _tolo govano ven_ ,” Baggins called. The young Man dropped immediately out the ranks at Baggins’ call. His dark hair was hidden under his helm and there was a light sheen of sweat on his face beneath. The sword he sheathed at his side, and the shield hung loosely from his left hand as he came to stand before Baggins.

“I would thank you not to share this fact with your men,” Thorin grumbled under his breath, regarding the young Man with some apprehension.

“Hush, I promise this is not what you think,” Baggins said, turning back to Estel. “You spent some time learning the art of healing from Lord Elrond, correct?”

Estel blinked, taken aback by the question, but then his gaze became intent and he nodded. “From earliest childhood.”

“Perhaps you could confirm a suspicion of mine,” Baggins said, nodding to Thorin. “Childhood illness, weak lungs, but I can’t hear anything wrong with them now. No fluid or rasp. Could it be the panting sickness?”

“Must we discuss this here?” Thorin said, looking out over the drilling soldiers, who were not paying them the least attention.

Estel and Baggins exchanged a look and then switched into fluid, babbling Elvish.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Thorin grumbled, but the two were ignoring him, carrying on in that liquid tongue that made Thorin shift from foot to foot, feeling distinctly like an outsider.

“Well it certainly can’t be worse than the shame of a Dwarf who cannot fight,” Estel said, breaking into Westron. Baggins stiffened, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Estel, there was a reason we were speaking in Elvish,” Baggins muttered. He turned to Thorin. “Right, your Majesty, if you will come with us?”

* * *

Which is how Thorin found himself with a towel draped over his head, and his face bent over a bowl of hot water and leaves. Steam rose from the bowl, bathing his brow in sweat, but the flush that spread over his cheeks had nothing to do with the heat.

“I feel ridiculous,” Thorin growled. Estel sat at the other chair at the table in what was presumably Baggins’ camp office. The corners were piled high with papers, the shelves with books, but Thorin had no chance to read their spines before he was settled at the table while Estel went to boil the water. To make matters worse, at no point had Baggins stopped watching him, which might have made the whole farce easier. Estel had returned with a boiling teakettle, the bowl in question, and a bag full of what turned out to be weeds.

“Athelas,” Baggins had clarified as Thorin watched suspiciously while Estel poured the bag out on the table, and began separating leaves from stem with his fingernails and, in some instances, his teeth, which left in Thorin’s mind some question as to the hygiene of this exercise. “In the common tongue it’s called kingsfoil. A peculiar little flower. Utterly useless as far as hobbits are concerned, I’ve never heard of any who could wring any virtue from them save for Estel here.”

“That’s all very well, but you still have not told me what you are planning,” Thorin said. “If this is about my illness, I can assure you the greatest dwarven healers have been consulted and said there is no remedy. I should think we have other business to attend to.” Even admitting that much felt like ripping off a bandage from a wound that had not healed. He felt unsteady and exposed to speak so frankly about his body’s weakness, when in Ered Luin his shame was well known and therefore never discussed except by his detractors.

“First we must establish the source of your illness,” Estel said without looking up from his task. “If it is purely physical, a defect from birth, then it may be as you said. If, however, it is as I suspect a chronic inflammation of the lungs, then with regular steam treatments and proper awareness we could well have you out on the training field by the end of the day.”

The stab of hope that went through Thorin was so sharp and painful, that it was his immediate reaction to suppress it. This was foolishness. Nothing had ever worked in curing him, not after almost two hundred years. But the thought of being able to train, to learn the arts of weaponry and compete with other dwarves without collapsing was an unbearable temptation. Thorin bit back his retort, content for the moment to wait, if only to see what Baggins had in mind.

This contentment dissolved when Estel draped a towel over Thorin’s head and angled his face over the bowl. Thorin cast nervous glances at Baggins, looking for some sign of mockery, but Baggins was serene, nodding for Thorin to proceed. He grumbled, but did as he was bidden. The steam bathed his face, and with it the heat of the water. The weeds had a faint aroma of their own, a delicate scent that was almost swallowed by the heat, but distinctly floral. Thorin waited, taking the deep breaths through the diaphragm, his hands on the table.

Several times, Estel added more boiling water from the kettle, sending another puff of steam into Thorin’s face. After half an hour, Estel took away the bowl and excused himself to clean it. Thorin sat up, wiping the sweat and steam residue from his face impatiently with his hand, and looked up into Baggins’ expectant face.

“Come with me,” Baggins said, and tossed, of all things, a wood practice sword of what looked like bound willow branches to Thorin, who caught it out of the air and stood. It seemed he would not be free of this exercise until it was complete, though he admitted to himself that he was equally curious to see what Baggins had in mind, and not entirely loathe to take the opportunity for time in his company. The preparations for the campaign could wait a little longer.

“You know some of the basics, I presume?” Baggins said once they were outside. It was with some relief that Thorin noted they were not positioned in the main practice ring, but rather that Baggins had led him to a small clearing between the cottage that housed Baggins’ office and the edge of the forest. There were no prying eyes as far as he could tell, as he could still hear the periodic whistles of the drilling troops.

Thorin nodded, dropping into a simple stance with the sword clasped in both hands in front of him. He had indeed been shown the basics: how to stand, how to block, how to fall. He could not duel for more than a few minutes without his chest feeling as if it were locked in a vise, but he could wrestle a knife from an attacker in the last defense of his life.

Otherwise, his teachers had advised him to run, and Thorin could not help but note the undertone to their words. That if he were ever in a position where his guards were not enough to defend him, he would leave his people and Ered Luin better off to simply accept his fate.

“We will start simple then. I will attack, you block and, if you can, try to counter me,” said Baggins. Thorin nodded, familiar enough with the idea, taught to the youngest dwarven children, but was resigned to the fact they had perhaps ten minutes before he would have to cease lest his vision blacken.

Baggins’ first thrust was slow, almost lazy, and Thorin knocked it aside, then parried again when Baggins used the momentum to come around for a slashing blow. They continued like this, an easy back and forth, the moves slow and telegraphed, until Thorin had a good sense for Baggins’ movements, and signaled this by using an opening to jab at his chest. Baggins knocked the blade aside with hardly a glance, but nodded, and the speed increased.

Not only did Baggins increase the speed, but he stepped forward to add footwork drills. Thorin was backing up before he realized it, and it was only when his back bumped the side of the cottage that he recoiled, saw Baggins’ arched eyebrow and Thorin pushed _him_ back, circling and stepping within Baggins’ guard until the Halfling was forced to retreat.

 _Whack_! Baggins’ practice sword slapped against Thorin’s knuckles, the sting sharpening Thorin’s focus and he snarled under his breath as he increased his speed. Thrusting, slashing, driving for blows to Baggins’ arms, hands, chest, anywhere he thought he could make it past the guard. Baggins had years of experience on him, it was hopeless to think he could win the bout, but a corner of Thorin’s mind was awakening, shrugging off the haze of shame and apathy that for so long had kept him from considering sword craft. His eyes searched for patterns, for openings, and he began to feint, not only strike. Thorin bared his teeth, and if he could look upon himself he would have seen how his eyes blazed, sharp and intent.

Baggins slipped first. A stone turned beneath his feet, and in the split second it took for his eyes to dart down and identify the threat, Thorin struck. He slapped the willow blade against Baggins’ knuckles, hard enough to draw a yelp, and moved in, pushing Baggins’ blade down and checking his shoulder against his opponent, sending him sprawling. Thorin’s chest heaved as he looked down the length of his blade to where Baggins lay prone on the ground. Baggins stared up at him in return, honey curls tousled, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and a slow smile teasing the edge of his lips.

“Luncheon? We have been at this over an hour, and I for one could use a break,” Baggins said, and nodded towards the cottages. But that hint of a grin took on a sly cast as Thorin started, and looked in wonderment down at the practice sword in his hand.

“An hour?” Thorin echoed. He glanced up at the sun, saw that it had moved enough to very well prove Baggins’ words. For the first time he noted the ache in his muscles, masked until that point by concentration and adrenaline. He looked back to Baggins, stupefied.

“Indeed,” Baggins said, and grunted as he went to push himself up. Only then did Thorin remember himself, and offered a hand to help Baggins to his feet, hauling him up with hands gone numb from shock. He took a deep, testing breath, and found his lungs were still clear, not the faintest hint of the pain that would normally have him on his knees gasping by now. “If we hurry, Bombur may still have some stew for us— _oof_!”

Thorin crushed Baggins against his chest, smelling pipe weed and soap as he buried his face against those curls, lest the mercenary leader see those few seconds where he could not suppress the tears prickling his eyes and tightening his throat. “Thank you,” was all Thorin could manage to say. His voice was hoarse despite his efforts, but could not stop the words from tumbling out. “I can never repay you for this… this gift.”

“A fourteenth percent of Erebor’s wealth will be quite sufficient,” Baggins said dryly, his words muffled by Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin shook his head as he withdrew, knowing his eyes were still reddened but at least he would not betray himself with actual tears.

“For this alone I would give you the entire mountain, were it mine to give,” Baggins looked ready to protest, but Thorin held up a hand to stop him. “An exaggeration, of course. But understand, there is no earthly treasure that can equal this. You have given me my life back.”

“Well, that is…” Thorin was astonished to see that _Baggins_ was blushing, looking down at his toes, which curled and uncurled in the dirt. “It’s hardly an instant cure. You will need to take regular treatments, and Estel has recommended some breathing exercises to increase your lung capacity. But beyond that…yes, indeed, this should do the trick for your malady. No doubt you have your own tutors, but if you wish, you may continue your training with the Company, and with me.” If anything, Baggins appeared almost shy as he spoke.

“Master Baggins, even if it had not worked, I would have accepted the excuse to wile away the hours in your company,” Thorin said, closing his hand around Baggins’ upper arm. He squeezed it once, while his throat tightened and his lungs remained wonderfully clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Strider, _tolo govano ven_ \- (Sindarin) Strider, please come here.
> 
> "The panting sickness" - Asthma, from the Greek ἅσθμα, ásthma, "panting", hence the name in this AU :)


	7. Chapter 7

It was another disappointing night as far as Baggins’ presence at the Prancing Pony was concerned. Thorin waited at the bar while hobbits Men and dwarves milled around, all tending to their own business. He no longer felt the wariness he had the first night, in part because he recognized many of the faces as members of Baggins’ Company. They recognized him in turn, nodding, some even giving a tiny salute when he caught their eye. Baggins was tied up at the camp apparently, still hunched over Balin’s reports on the supply lines of the journey, now only a week away. They hoped to leave before the end of spring, to give them the summer to cross the Misty Mountains even under the worst of circumstances and delays. 

Thorin was so lost in thought he hardly noticed when the seat beside him was occupied by a familiar curly head, though it was not Baggins himself.

“Ta, your Majesty,” said a voice from beside him. Thorin looked over to see one of Baggins’ hobbits taking the seat and gratefully accepting a mug of ale almost as large as his head from the bartender. “Long day?” It took Thorin a moment to place the name of the hobbit, recognizing him as Baggins’ quartermaster. 

“Master Gamgee,” Thorin said, raising his glass of wine in salute once the name returned to his memory. Gamgee raised his wooden tankard and clinked it against Thorin’s wine glass.  

“Hamfast, please. The Company calls me ‘Gaffer’ if that’s more to your liking,” Hamfast said and took a long draw from his tankard. 

“Hamfast then, if you will call me Thorin,” Thorin replied, settling back in his chair. Hamfast was an amiable enough fellow from what Thorin had seen, with a nose shaped like a squashed potato and deep laugh lines. He and Baggins both had the mop of curly hair typical of hobbits, but that was where the resemblance ended, and Thorin supposed that meant Hamfast was one of the few surviving hobbits that was not directly related.  

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, your Majesty,” Hamfast said. “Nothing personal, you understand, it’s not orders. Only, my ma and da, rest their souls, raised me right and it doesn’t do to be talking to royalty so familiar, if you follow me.”

“Ah,” Thorin said, his shoulders falling a bit as he turned back to his drink. “I understand. Address me as you like, Master Hamfast. I would not wish to offend the spirits of your family.” He offered a faint smile at this. 

“Good of you to understand, your Majesty,” Hamfast said with a nod. They fell into a sort of companionable silence until a thought occurred to Thorin, one he had not considered since that morning.  

“Perhaps you can answer a question for me,” Thorin said, turning in his chair to face Hamfast, looking at him intently. “Why ‘Mad’ Baggins?”

Hamfast sucked in a breath through his teeth, a complicated array of emotions crossing his face. Surprise, doubt, consideration, and a frown that might have been pain. Thorin backpedaled. “Unless there is some aspect of the tale that does not bear repeating? I had thought, given the nature of the name, that it was common knowledge, but none seem willing to repeat it.”

Hamfast nodded absently. “No, no it’s all right. Seems only fair that you should know, but we usually allow our clients to come up with their own reasons. Better for his reputation if there’s a lot of versions, you understand. But, seeing as you’re sharing his bed, you might as well know the truth.” 

Thorin gaped and sputtered. “I am not—but we haven't—!”

Hamfast gave him a shrewd look. “Only a matter of time. I’ve seen the way you look at him, how he looks at you. Everyone agrees you’re good for each other. Not that we know you as well, but you’ve steadied Master Baggins, calmed him down. I’ve never seen him so focused on a job as he is this one, so you must have impressed him.” Thorin choked, torn between flushing to his toes at the thought of the _entire Company_ taking an interest in whatever it was that was developing between him and Baggins, and a flush of an entirely different kind at the thought of somehow having impressed their leader. “But as to your question… it’s a hard tale, your Majesty, so you’ll understand if we usually prefer to let clients draw their own conclusions. You heard of the Fell Winter?” 

“I have,” Thorin said. The orcs of the Misty Mountains had come down across the plains, pillaging and burning every settlement they came across. Their numbers were too great to be halted, for none had dared confront them in their stolen home of Moria in all the centuries since they had taken it, and there they had bred an army without challenge. They never made it so far as Ered Luin before the winter ended, and they returned to their holes, but the Shire had not been so fortunate.  

“Aye, a hard year for all Shire-folk, the year we lost our home. I heard tales from my ma and da about how it used to be. We were a peaceful people then, who made our way in the world by farming, as we had for hundreds of years. That we loved peace and quiet, and the good tilled earth. There were no warriors amongst us then,” Hamfast said distantly. “I think I might have enjoyed such a life, always had a bit of a passion for gardening, but you understand it was not to be.”

“Master Baggins, Bilbo, he was a tween when it happened. Twenty-one and barely out of childhood. I was only a babe at the time, but I heard the tales. Y’see… they got to his family first. Came screaming across the frozen Brandywine they did, burning everything before them, but Hobbiton they took at night. Quick and quiet, no screams. It’s a miracle young Bilbo woke up in time and when he did, they’d already killed his ma and da, cut their throats while they slept in their beds,” Hamfast swallowed, looking vaguely ill to even be speaking of it. 

“Everyone agrees that’s when Bilbo went a bit mad. He slipped out the window and went running into town, pounding on doors as he went, calling ‘Awake! Fear! Fire! Foes! Awake!’, the horn-call of Buckland, only to be used in direst emergency. And so it was, the orcs had already begun to fire the houses they had raided and the Shire was burning. Once he got to the Green Dragon, young Bilbo took a pony and road like the blazes, shouting to rouse the town. Then, when all were awake, he wheeled it about, and vanished into the woods. 

“Those who saw him go thought him surely dead, or touched. There was naught in the direction he’d gone save endless forest, and no time to go searching for one tween, if any could have caught him on the pony to begin with. We hobbits were not fighters then, but we had our pitchforks and our scythes and homes to defend. The fighting went long into the night, lit by the burning smials.  

“Then, just as dawn rose, there was the sound of hooves, and who should appear but young Master Baggins! And behind him a host of Rangers, those wild Men of the North. They rounded up the survivors and ran them out of the fighting before turning to face the orc hoards themselves. And here is the answer to your question, Master Dwarf: Bilbo went _with_ them. Took up a little sword, no bigger than a letter opener, and charged the goblin ranks. Old Bullroarer himself could not have been prouder, save that Master Baggins had not yet come of age.”

Thorin reeled. The dwarves of Erebor had lost their home while he was in his thirties, too sickly to do anything but flee to safety. The thought of one so young charging a hoard of goblins when he had the choice to flee… “What happened after that?” 

“Well, if we didn’t think him queer before we certainly did after. Grateful, mind you, but with his parents dead, there were many families that would have been happy to take young Bilbo in. The Tooks were only the first in line and the astonishing daughters of Old Took, his aunts you see. After all, he’d quite clearly adopted himself to the Tookish side already! But young Master Baggins turned them all down and ran off with the Rangers, imagine that! Vanished with them the very next day, and we saw almost nothing of him for twelve years. I think most of the survivors had given him up, like those hobbits that go to sea, never to return.” 

“Then at thirty-three, just come of age, Master Baggins comes and says he’d be starting his own ranger company! Said he’d learned all he could from the Men and was ready to make sure that what happened to the Shire never happened again. I was just a sprout at the time, but I remember that most thought him mad and said so. He’d become something of a legend in his time away, Mad Baggins disappearing in a puff of smoke! But it was nothing compared to what came next, and sure enough he got some recruits, mostly from the Tooks, and formed the Company. That was some twenty, thirty years ago? Well, the rest is history. Most folks don’t know about the Shire raid though, and I think Master Baggins prefers that. Very keen he is on keeping us hobbit folk out of the public eye, ‘cept those who learn to defend themselves. He’s got big plans.”

“Plans?” said Thorin, brow furrowing.

“For rebuilding the Shire! Not like it used to be, but then there’s naught anyone can do to go back to the way it was, and fewer remember every year what our home was like. We’ve taken some cues from the dwarves, actually. A bit hard because there’s no caves about, but the wall Master Baggins plans ought to keep orcs and worse out. Have our own little kingdom, fancy that.”

“A second kingdom built from the bones of Smaug…” Thorin echoed.

“Aye, exactly!” Hamfast said enthusiastically. “Last time we went to Gondor, Master Baggins was quite impressed! Took one look at the walls of the White City and made up his mind on the spot. ‘We’ll have a set of those for the Shire,’ says he with a nod to himself. Happened to be that I was standing beside him at the time, so I turns to him and I says, ‘What do you mean, Mister Bilbo?’” said Hamfast. He paused and the silence drew out so long, Thorin leaned in, raising his eyebrows. 

“And?” he said.  

Hamfast appeared lost in thought, jerked himself free of whatever memory held him. “And he says, ‘Walls, Gaffer! Walls that stretch around the whole Shire, twenty feet tall, made of stone. We’ll hire dwarves if we must, but never again, Gaffer, never again will the Shire fall!’” 

“A wall around the entire land?” Thorin said, incredulous. “It must be miles across; there’s never been anything like it. It would cost you…!” He stopped, seeing now for the first time the full enormity of Mad Baggins’ plan. 

“A pretty penny, wouldn’t you say?” said Hamfast shrewdly, spying Thorin’s look. He placed a finger on the side of his nose knowingly. “A fourteenth percent of the greatest wealth in the world? Oh, don’t look surprised, I’m the quartermaster after all, Mister Bilbo told me first off what price you agreed. But aye, you’re right, a wall that big will not be cheap. We’ve been saving these past twenty years. A whole kingdom, that’s what Bilbo plans, a place for our people and those loyal to us. He doesn’t style himself as king, don’t think he ever will, he’s got young Paladin in mind. Sees himself as more of an advisor, general, diplomat, that sort of thing. Never again will hobbits be trampled.”

“No, indeed, you will be a kingdom to be reckoned with,” Thorin marveled, now imagining such a future. A land so well protected could very well compete with Ered Luin, with its farms within the walls, a well-trained military force like the one he’d just witnessed the other day, and a population that bred like rabbits. Within a few generations, they could well challenge Gondor itself. It would do well for Ered Luin, poor coal miners’ town that it was, to make friends with such an up and coming power, lest they should ever extend their borders, or seek true dominion. 

“Aye, that is our Bilbo,” said Hamfast, and there was something sad in his expression, thoughtful and melancholy that Thorin could not help but find puzzling. 

“You seem displeased with this?” Thorin said with a thoughtful frown. Surely it was an exalted vision, one that would do credit to his own grandfather, Thrór, who Thorin remembered only dimly, lost as he had been in the fall of Erebor to Smaug.  

“Don’t mind me, your Majesty, truly it’s of no account,” Hamfast began. Thorin would have left it there, for dwarves were not ones to pry into the affairs of others, but Hamfast's hollow denial seemed only a bridge to open up further, and he continued with a long drag of his ale. “It is only… it doesn’t feel natural, you follow? We hobbits were simple farming folk, nothing special, of no account to the great power an’ purposes of the world. Tweren’t hardly given a thought. To be setting ourselves up as a kingdom, instead of just gettin’ a little breathin’ space to return to our old ways… it feels like tempting fate. If we build ourselves a great big wall, who is to say others will not see that as a challenge?” Hamfast said, and looked at Thorin, as if truly seeking an answer to his question. 

One that seemed perfectly clear to Thorin. “Even the smallest kingdom may join the ranks of the mighty,” Thorin said earnestly. “When my grandfather Thrór found Erebor it was only stone quarry with a few scraps of iron, a settlement of little worth. No gems or gold had yet been found there until he took the throne, when it flourished under his hand. Had anyone asked then of what value the Lonely Mountain could be, they would never have predicted its future place as the wealthiest of dwarven cities, nay, of all the cities east of the Sea.” 

“Until the dragon came,” Hamfast said, his expression solemn despite the flush in his cheeks from his ale. 

Thorin blinked, a chill falling upon him, as if by some premonition. “Even so, it is still the wealthiest. It is not the fault of our people that we were visited by calamity any more than you were for the orc hordes that swept upon your people. We may only take back what is ours from those who have stolen it.”

“Save when we tempt fate,” Hamfast said and shook himself, taking another sip of his ale. “Don’t mind me, Majesty, I am behind this venture. I’d follow Mister Bilbo to death itself and back, pay me no mind. Only….” 

“Only what?” Thorin said, beginning to recognize when a pause was an invitation from this Master Gamgee.

“Only, I cannot help but think that we could build a good life here,” Hamfast said wistfully. “A life worth more than all the gold in Erebor."

At that, Thorin went silent, for he had no answer for it. He and Hamfast subsided back into their drinks and spoke no more, retiring soon after. Baggins made no appearance that night, though his presence lay heavy upon Thorin’s mind as he closed his eyes and drifted, into dark and dreamless sleep. 

* * *

The next day, Thorin found himself still thinking on the story he’d heard from the quartermaster, staring into the distance as he brooded on Hamfast’s tale. He had come to his resolution some time earlier and waited only for Baggins to appear now. He was not sure how to broach the subject, if at all. It seemed an intensely personal matter, for all that his deeds had been so public. Baggins had made the nickname his own, but with its roots in the death of his parents, it was no wonder the hobbit preferred to allow clients draw their own conclusions as to its source.

In a rare twist of luck, Baggins was actually present at the breakfast of bread and cheese left out by the innkeeper of the Prancing Pony in those wee hours of the morning. It was still dark outside when Thorin caught Baggins’ arm just as he was heading out the door. Thorin had dressed in haste, and his mind and eyes were still heavy with sleep, but as ever his heart was pounding at the sight of Baggins and it gave an alertness of its own. 

“I wish to see your home,” Thorin said in a rush, just as Baggins went to cross the threshold. Baggins stopped, a strange expression crossing over his face, confusion, then something aching and exposed, before it closed up again so quickly it might have been Thorin’s imagination. 

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” Baggins laughed, as if as an afterthought, the sound strangely hollow and false. It was a polite gesture; an unconscious one, as if a behavior learned in childhood and reverted to when one was caught off guard, an instinct to face all moments of confusion with extreme politeness. 

“Because it is your home,” Thorin said, holding him tighter and leaning in so that their faces were near, and he did not tower so much over Baggins. “And it matters to you.” 

“To me, certainly,” Baggins said, his eyes searching Thorin’s face. “But I fail to see why that would interest you.”

“What is important to you is important to me,” Thorin insisted, and felt an odd wrenching sensation at the words, as if he’d admitted more than he should ever dare. He felt reckless, wild and free, more certain now than he had of anything in his life. “And in any case, you are coming on a quest to help me reclaim my home. It is only right that I should see yours as well.” 

“I—” Baggins began, and Thorin waited. Until Baggins’ silence stretched longer and that aching, open look returned as he stared up at Thorin, as if he was the greatest puzzle in the world. “I—” 

“Just say yes,” Thorin said gently. “And tell me the date. I will make all necessary arrangements.”

“You really don’t have to!” Baggins blurted, and pulled back, as if startled at his own outburst. “I—what I mean is, there’s very little to see in the Shire, there hasn’t been anything for… for nearly fifty years now. Why would you _care_?”

Thorin stopped, as he’d begun to turn to go back inside, where Balin was nibbling over some cheese and bread, to tell him that sometime in the next fortnight Thorin would need to beg a day or two off for a personal errand. “Did I not say? It matters to you, and so it matters to me. I know too what it is like to lose a home, Master Baggins, and if reclaiming Erebor will aid you in some small way to secure the Shire, then I am glad. But first, I would very much like to see it, that which holds such sway over your heart.”

“There is no obligation,” Baggins said, as if not quite believing his ears. “Even if I aid you... goodness, even if we share a _bed_ , I would not expect you to take an interest.”

“But why not?” Thorin said, frowning. This was far more complicated than he’d envisioned, expecting merely a yes or no to his query, not this bafflement and lingering questions. Baggins seemed wholly flabbergasted, a far cry from the ease and comfort with which he gave orders to command his company. 

“Because no one ever has!” Baggins exclaimed and stopped, turning red. Thorin could not help but stare, so unbelievable a sight it was. Baggins, blushing? He’d thought the Halfling incapable, that Thorin himself was the only one of the two of them that could ever be flustered and overwhelmed. “I mean, in all my years, I’ve never… no one has ever…”

Baggins recovered himself, clearing his throat and standing a bit straighter. When he spoke again, he cocked an eyebrow, looking frankly at Thorin; whatever chaos that churned within him covered once again by that surface of icy calm. “King Thorin, if it your wish to see the Shire, then I should be most glad to show you, as soon as affairs allow. I’m simply taken aback because, until recently, there’s been very little to show. The immediate negotiations will end later this day, and training will run until the end of the week. May we plan for this weekend for such an excursion? We will need ponies and supplies for the night and morning, since we will need to pass the evening there if we do not wish to turn around immediately, as it is more than half a day’s journey. Will that be acceptable?”

“Most acceptable, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, inclining his head with some degree of light teasing. It was well worth it for the look of pleasant surprise that blossomed on Baggins face, and even though they had to part ways soon thereafter, the promise of that week’s end lingered with Thorin, putting energy in his step and renewed vigor in his preparations for the upcoming campaign. The last of the revisions for the contract were put in place and finally signed that day, as were the orders for the food and mounts that would be needed for the first leg of their journey.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to TheMusicalDevil, YaAurens, solartopia, and farashasilver for their beta help!

Thorin panted in the noonday sun, sweat bathing his face, and his stomach grumbling in discontent over the many hours since breakfast: a bowl of porridge just as darkness had turned to day.

“Move your feet,” Estel called from where he leaned on the fencepost. Distracted, Thorin looked over, sweat stinging his eyes as he moved his head, and he winced as he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was only a light touch with the wicker blade, but in battle it could well be a killing blow that would cleave him shoulder to hip.

“Again,” Glorfindel said. He squared himself, dropping down into a simple stance, longsword hilt pulled up to his pointed ear, the tip downward like a bull’s goring horns. From that angle he could quickly move to an overhead swing, or a chopping blow to Thorin’s neck, or drop it down behind his back to defend from a slashing blow. These thoughts flitted through Thorin’s mind in the whirlwind of new movements and stances his teachers bombarded him with every day. It was dizzying, but some of it must have begun to stick because his feet easily found the basic stance again, this time without thinking, right foot forward and left back and pointed to the side, further away almost as if riding a horse. It made for wide, powerful movements when striking forward, a sort of dance as they moved back and forth across the practice ring.

“I should think a warrior of your skill has better uses for his time than training a rank beginner,” Thorin said with chagrin. He was painfully aware of his ineptitude, especially when surrounded by warriors who made battle their life, training in the art since they were little more than children while he was well into middle age.

“It is never a waste to go over the basics again,” Glorfindel said without dropping his stance or taking his eyes away from the center of Thorin’s chest, his gaze unfocused so that he could take in any movement Thorin made with his peripheral vision. “And you are not the only one I am teaching. Estel is to keep an eye on you and note my technique, so that he may teach others. One cannot always assume that lifelong warriors will always be on hand when there is need. The ability to train a green force to fighting strength in a short time is as important, if not more so, than the finer points of dueling.”

Thorin flinched at the ‘green’ remark, though he could not contest it, and there was no way to get better other than practice. “In that case, might you at least tell him not to shout contradictory instructions while I am trying to focus?”

“There are many distractions on the battlefield, Master Dwarf,” chimed Estel. “The least of your worries should be helpful instruction. And they are not contradictory, you must mind your feet as well as your hands.”

Thorin grumbled, for Glorfindel only nodded in agreement. His whole body felt out of sorts, a puzzle of disconnected parts that training was only beginning to reforge into a single unit. Feet, stance, grip, technique, distance, all jockeying in his brain as he tried to remember each at once. Focus too much on one and the others slipped, and Glorfindel’s wicker blade would find the opening with a _thwack_.

“It will get easier with time,” Glorfindel said as if reading his thoughts. Perhaps he could; who knew, with elves who were as old as the Sun and Moon themselves? “Right now your mind must make up for what your body does not know. Each round will teach your body a little more, freeing your mind to focus on strategy. That will come with practice. Now, again.”

It was a relief when the bell outside the mess hall rang and Rangers streamed in from all points of the camp, laughing and chattering, gesturing to one another as they took their seats on the long benches and tables that lined the inside. The food was often simple fare but savory, today a thick chowder of mushrooms, tubers, and local-caught fish, which Thorin ate with gusto as well as relief. Despite the tragedies they suffered, hobbits were still great lovers of food, and from the ambient chatter, Thorin gathered that this was one of the best recruiting points of the Company of Mad Baggins.

Many other Ranger companies paid little mind to the needs of their warriors when not on campaign, leaving them to dip into their own earnings to stay in fighting shape. Not so with Mad Baggins, who kept his Rangers fed throughout the year with hobbit kitchens that would be scandalized at the thought of a substandard meal. It was not just a luxury, for this reputation allowed the Company to be choosy when adding to their ranks. There were always those seeking to join, and no matter how good the soldiers, there would always be spaces to fill after a campaign. Spaces opened either by tragic loss in battle, or retirement, when a Ranger had made the money they thought necessary for the ultimate goal: a small farm or business of their own, often in Bree. The town flourished, and the Company flourished with it, making a relationship that was satisfying to all.

“How fare your lungs?” Estel said, taking a seat beside Thorin. “Will you need another treatment before we continue?”

Thorin sighed, but now that his panting sickness, as Estel referred to it, was undergoing treatment rather than sitting as an intractable weakness that stole from his life and reputation, he found it not quite as difficult to discuss. “I fear I must. Towards the end of the bout, my vision began to darken around the edges and I forced myself forward to match Master Glorfindel’s pace.”

“In the future you should not wait so long to speak. This is not a contest, nor is it a race to see who may master the sword at the swiftest pace. You are making remarkable progress, Master Dwarf, it is obvious you are a natural, and it would not do to lose a day’s practice because you have pushed too soon past your limits.” Thorin chafed at the idea of having limits at all, but a lifetime of weakness had made him used to it, so he only nodded and looked chastened, until Estel clapped him on the shoulder with almost dwarvish strength. “Have no fear. By the time we reach Esgaroth, you will look back on this time in wonder for all the progress you have made.”

“So, we shall continue this even on the road?” Thorin said, raising an eyebrow. His shoulders rose a little, a subtle gesture, but Estel’s words warmed him in ways he could not quite explain. Even though the Man was so many years younger, he had a gravity and good humor to him that made his company pleasant. It had been years since he had heard such encouragement and praise from a tutor, not since his music lessons as a lad, where he was considered gifted with the harp if nothing else.

“To be sure, I’ve been ordered, and would still have an interest even if I had not. Glorfindel will school you in the basics until we depart in a fortnight’s time, and then I will take over when I am not busy with my other duties. We will work out a schedule that is favorable to you, as our tasks will multiply once we are on the road.”

There would indeed be endless chores upon the road: seeing to their troops, setting up camp and breaking it down again. Indeed, Thorin would be quite busy as a leader and not only as a student. Mindful of this, he threw himself into the lessons after they finished their luncheon and another steam session with the Athelas leaves. They had only two more weeks, not counting the week’s end when he would go on his retreat with Baggins, and once they departed he would not be able to spend such long hours focused only on training.

* * *

“You look well,” Balin remarked that night when Thorin returned from the camp. He’d undergone one last treatment before night fell and made further training difficult, and before that had doused himself in a bucket of water to remove the sweat, so that his hair was still damp when he changed clothes and returned to the Prancing Pony.

Thorin stopped at this, painfully conscious of how he must appear. Flushed, dripping, and clad in only a simple tunic and trousers. Utterly un-kingly, he had not thought anything of it until he crossed the threshold and found his advisor waiting. He stiffened, shoulders pulling in a little as the exhilaration of a day spent at sword-play flickered and died in his breast. “My apologies. If I am needed here you need only send a runner to find me.”

Balin clucked in annoyance.  “Not at all, lad. It wasn’t a criticism. I think you’re exactly where you need to be right now, and there’s nothing here we can’t handle.”

“It is a selfish pursuit. I shall speak to my teacher about limiting my hours there,” Thorin insisted. Of course it could not last, playing at soldiers like a child.

Balin threw up his hands. “Thorin! Everything is in order, we don’t need you here as a simple clerk, and reports from Ered Luin say Frerin is doing just fine. The city runs itself at this point anyway. Rest. Take the air. I can think of many worse pursuits than finding you have a talent for swordsmanship. When I say you look well, I’m not being an elf. I mean exactly what I say.”

After another skeptical look, Thorin relaxed, the stiffness leaving him. Perhaps he was being foolish, if he was beginning to read double meanings where there were none. Balin caught the motion, and with a sigh beckoned Thorin closer. He took a damp strand of hair streaked with silver that had come loose from one of the braids, and tucked it over Thorin’s ear. Thorin’s expression went blank, even as something in his throat tightened. Only his father had been so tactile, and only occasionally, and it struck Thorin then how recent it had been, only a few months before. Though Thráin had lived a long life and Thorin was no longer a boy, a part of him still missed his father and always would, no matter how distant he’d been.

“Forgive me, it’s only…” Balin paused, considering and studying Thorin’s face. “It aged all of us, losing the mountain like that, and life has not been easy since. But you’ve done honorably by our people, and I see no harm in you taking your own joy where you can find it. You seem… younger for it.”

“Hopefully not too young,” Thorin said, once the tightness in his throat eased and he gave a faint smile. “I still have dwarves to command, and I would not have them follow one who behaves as a beardless youth.”

Balin barked a laugh at this. “Oh, I would not fear! I doubt a magic exists that could make you a youth again.”

Thorin chuckled in agreement, only to be interrupted by a commotion behind them, and both looked up as Baggins entered the inn. His greeting was far more in line with that of a returning monarch than Thorin’s had been, with the a welcoming cheer rising from the denizens of the tavern, even the rough and shifty-looking ones. The bartender already had a foaming pint ready, and slid it across to him on the lower bar counter, so the hobbit would not have to reach above his head to accept it. Baggins took it gratefully, taking a long swig and laughing at the foam it left on his upper lip, wiping it away and turning to greet some other well-wisher as he sipped the pint, nodding occasionally in earnest at some comment.

Thorin’s ears had only just begun to heat, thankfully masked by his hair, when he felt a hard clap on his shoulder and looked over to see Balin’s blue eyes twinkling at him. “Go to him, lad,” he said, with a nod towards Baggins. “It’s been a long day, and I’m an old soul. I’ll just be having my supper and turn in for the night shortly.”

Before Thorin could protest, Balin gave him a light shove that sent him forward a step in Baggins’ direction. Baggins looked up at the motion, and with the sword training Thorin could see it better for what it was. The hobbit was constantly watching the room with his peripheral vision, and any sudden movement saw a shift in his feet towards a potential threat and the flicker of his gaze, even as he kept his attention apparently on the person he was speaking with, and nary a hitch in the conversation. It may be possible to catch him off guard by distracting him in that way with a sudden movement, Thorin thought, with instincts beginning to sharpen with every training session. The question was how quickly he could tell a feint from a threat? The answer was probably: much quicker than Thorin at this point.

Yet if he was expecting a polite, genteel greeting he was destined for surprise, because Baggins wasted no time, idly reaching a hand out for Thorin’s as he drew closer. Thorin accepted cautiously, only to be guided in next to Baggins, who wrapped his arm around Thorin’s waist and leaned his head on Thorin’s shoulder without pause.

“Oh, is this him then?” said the hobbit lass across from them. She had a slightly different accent from Baggins’, but like all hobbits she had soft, pleasant features and sparkling, clever eyes as well as a mop of black curls.

“My cousin by marriage, Primula Baggins, née Brandybuck,” Baggins introduced. “She tends my properties in the Shire while Drogo and I are on campaign. An absolute wizard in the vineyards. We have not had such fine wines since 1296, by Shire reckoning.”

“Thorin, son of Thráin. At your service, Mistress Baggins,” Thorin said, inclining his head. He would have given a full bow, as was custom, but he was currently locked in place by a comfortable hand around his middle and he was not overly inclined to move it. On a stroke of inspiration, he recalled some of the more formal greetings of Men. He gestured for her hand, which Primula gave willingly, seeming prepared to shake it, until Thorin leaned in and pressed a kiss to the sun-browned surface. Primula’s hazel eyes flew open, but did not pull her hand away. For a fleeting second, Thorin worried he’d offended her, until he saw the blush rushing over her face like an overheated kettle, and a similar squeaking noise emerged.

She shot a wild look at Baggins. “My goodness, cousin! Handsome _and_ charming, wherever did you find him?”

“Ered Luin, and I would say I found your cousin, as we are seeking his services as a commander,” Thorin said. “Though perhaps I should have come sooner, for it seems I am much better received amongst hobbits. Handsome _and_ charming? I’m sure many of my own people would be shocked to hear those words applied.”

“Would you believe, Prim, that according to this dwarf he is considered ugly?” Baggins said, and Thorin would have been stung at how casually it was stated, even callously, if not for Primula’s reaction, which was far too immediate to be some sort of pre-arranged pantomime.

“You’re having me on!” Primula exclaimed, gaping. “I absolutely refuse to believe it, surely that is only some obscure dwarvish humor?”

“If only it were,” Thorin replied, feeling warmth bloom within him. Not the furious burn that he felt often as not at Baggins’ presence, but something altogether gentler and easier to manage. Almost… pride. Certainly he was still cautious at the praise, but he could not deny it was a pleasant feeling. “It seems hobbit taste runs quite different, a fact for which I feel I must be grateful. But I am remiss not to mention your cousin’s fine qualities.”

“Not the least of which is his oddness,” Primula laughed. “It’s a strange hobbit who takes up with a dwarf. Though, I feel considering the present company, that more would be willing to make the leap if they knew what you were hiding behind those beards of yours.”

“I’m sure there’s many an unfortunate dwarf like me who would be delighted to hear that,” Thorin said with a small grin of his own. For some reason it did not sting so much, talking to hobbits of yet another misfortune in his life - perhaps because he actually believed them, bewildering as the thought was, and the fact it hadn’t really sunk in yet. For now he was simply grateful for it, as it brought him the equally bewildering and joyful experience of Baggins seeming to want him back. Perhaps they could simply be odd together.

“Which brings me somewhat to the matter at hand, Prim, and why I wanted to catch you before you went home. Thorin and I are planning a little excursion in a few day’s time, into Hobbiton. Could you see to it that the preparations are made before we arrive? The usual quarters, and some packed lunches? We’ll take dinner at the inn. Much as I’d like to cook for both of us, I’m afraid there just isn’t time with all that I want to show him.”

“A short holiday before you take off into the wilds of the East?” Primula said, giving a shrewd look between them. “Think nothing of it, cousin. I’ll see you have the suite at the Green Dragon. Very private, it is, all the way down at the end of the hall.”

“Perfect,” Baggins said. “Ah, that will be Drogo now! I will leave you two to it. Thorin? If you can spare a moment, I’ve been wanting to hear more of how your training has gone.”

Another hobbit had joined, one Thorin remembered from the archery range, this one with sandier hair like Baggins and startling blue eyes. Certainly handsome for their people, and he saw how Primula lit up as he entered, nearly skipping to his side with only a final wave and farewell over her shoulder at Baggins, with assurances that she would see to the arrangements.

“It goes well enough,” Thorin said, as they took a seat together in an out-of-the-way corner. To do otherwise would mean enduring the constant harassment of Bree-folk and Company members seeking Baggins’ companionship and conversation, but apparently in this little alcove it was understood that he did not want to be disturbed. Food was brought to them, bread and cheese to serve alongside the rest of Baggins’ beer and Thorin’s wine, which was brought without his prompting, along with a wink from the tavern maid who mouthed the words, ‘on the house!’ before she scurried off again.

Was everyone in this town trying to get him drunk?

“I’ve heard differently,” Baggins said as he leaned back against the wooden chair. “Glorfindel tells me you’re picking up the art with remarkable speed. A natural, he called you, and he fairly cursed the dwarves of Ered Luin for holding you back. If you have learned so much in such a short time, he said, your ability could well have been legendary by now.”

“I did have some training in my youth upon which to build,” Thorin said archly, though his ears burned. “The memory is returning along with the new skills. I suppose I should not be surprised to hear an elf curse my people, but he should know it was only my own body that held me back, for they would have been overjoyed to learn I could be of some use.”

“Yet they dismissed your handicap as intractable, when a little more searching further afield would have found that the Haradrim to the south have known of this ailment for centuries, and the elves have had a cure at least as long. You sell yourself too short, my friend. Glorfindel does not give praise idly, and even if he had not, Estel has been speaking of your progress to whoever would listen, as if it were his own personal achievement. I believe he already has your lessons planned out for several months of our journeying. Distressing as they may be, I thought I should give you fair warning,” Baggins added a wink to the last.

“At this rate, I will be serving at your side in no time,” Thorin laughed, but Baggins’ expression became immediately serious.

“I’m sorry, Thorin, but that is absolutely out of the question,” Baggins said. Thorin stilled.

“Why? Surely by the time we reach Lake-town…”

Baggins cut him off. “Yes, by then you will at least be good enough to serve just in an army, and exceptionally at that. But we are an _elite_ force, and expect years of training from our recruits in all aspects of warfare before we put them in the field. Only if we were _truly_ desperate would we turn to those with less than six months of dueling experience. That is even if you were not our employer. No, I’m afraid it is simply unacceptable. If you were to die in the field, not only would it threaten our payment and contract, it would threaten our _future_ contracts that we could not keep you safe.”

“I am not some coward to hang about, cringing at the back!” Thorin said hotly, bringing his fist down on the table, sending ripples shuddering through their glasses.

Baggins looked unimpressed. “A week ago you would not have considered it a possibility to do otherwise, as I recall. Do not let the promise of talent go to your head, Thorin son of Thráin. More swordmasters have been lost in the first year of their training from hubris than have died of old age, which is where I personally would much rather see you ending up.”

“And if I were a life-long dwarven warrior as you say, I imagine you would have no such qualms?” Thorin bit off.

“Of course,” Baggins said, looking him dead in the eye. “Because it would be an entirely different matter, and no dwarf would do business with a mercenary leader that kept him from the front, no matter my feelings on the subject. You are a special case.”

“Because of my weakness, or because you hope to share my bed?” Thorin snapped, and finally had the grim satisfaction of seeing surprise and hurt flit across Baggins’ face, beneath the hard surface of his professionalism. Then Baggins stood, without warning.

“There is nothing I would like better than to have you fight at my side, Thorin. I saw you out in the practice ring, and you were quite magnificent. I would not have believed you had never trained seriously before, if not for the assurances of Balin. But there is business, and there is pleasure. If I ever waver on this point and stand beside you with a sword in hand, _that_ is when you will know our contract is at an end.” Baggins drained his mug, slamming it down on the table, a flicker in his eye showing he was shocked at his own gesture before he stiffened his jaw. “Think on what I have said. If you wish to cancel our outing, let me know sooner rather than later, so I may tell Primula.”

With that Baggins left the table, and Thorin to stew in anger. Only as it cooled, and the wine lay untouched before him, did his own words catch up to him. He would not take them back. He would not let this future go, one where he may be a dwarf in truth, and not a weakling shadow always haunting the edges of his own court.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Solartopia for the beta help!

Thorin was waiting for Glorfindel the next day in the practice range, beside a bleary-eyed Estel who Thorin had dragged from his bed early to administer the steam treatment. His greeting to Glorfindel was terse, his wicker blade already in hand for their lesson.

“Before that, I would have you run around the camp three times as we usually do. I would not have you begin with cold muscles,” Glorfindel said with some puzzlement.

“Already done,” Thorin grunted, and Estel offered a tired nod to corroborate.

Glorfindel glanced between the two of them, considering.  “In that case, I suggest we switch up the lesson today.”

“What?” Thorin said, his grip on the sword slackening and new anger kindling inside him. Would this too now be denied to him?

“Estel, can you go fetch us two practice shields?” Glorfindel said. The Man nodded, trotting away and seeming relieved to be out of Thorin’s dour presence. Then the Elf turned back to Thorin. “What I have been teaching you so far is a dueling style, good for basics, and we certainly won’t leave it behind. But on the battlefield a shield will be of more use than even a swift blade.”

“I doubt I will see a battlefield anytime soon,” Thorin said, making no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his tone.

“Not this year, certainly,” Glorfindel said, examining his own wicker blade. “But after that, who is to say? I am confident with your pace of learning we could have you qualified to join the Company by the autumn of next year as a junior recruit. If you keep up with your training.”

“Your commander does not seem as certain of that,” Thorin said, but found some of his foul mood lifting. True, Baggins had said he was too inexperienced to fight in this campaign, but had said nothing of the years to come.

“Our commander’s intent is to see you made king of your reclaimed homeland,” Glorfindel said, looking up and arching an eyebrow. “I’m sure he was not thinking of how your skills would be of use to the Company after that. But I would be remiss to leave you half-trained. Once you are safely ensconced in Erebor, I will look into finding you a suitable teacher to carry on your training before we depart. By your leave, of course.”

Before they departed. Of course, if they managed to slay the dragon and reclaim the city, the Company would not stay long after. Their fame would become legendary, and all would seek their aid. Who knew, perhaps Estel’s languishing kingdom would have need of them next, to drive out whatever threat kept the young Man from his legacy. They would not stay for one lowly dwarf lord, not even for so rich a kingdom.

“You have my thanks, Master Glorfindel. That is indeed a considerate offer, and one I will think on as we travel,” Thorin said. Yet a tightness had settled upon him, an unwillingness to lose what he had so recently gained.

“Your shield, Master Dwarf,” Estel said, loping back from the armory with a wooden shield, edged in cloth padding so that the bearer would not risk slamming themselves or their opponent with the edge before they became accustomed to its use. Thorin accepted it gratefully, hefting it to test the weight.

“I do not know the extent of your education amongst the dwarves, so I ask only for your patience if I repeat any lessons you already know,” Glorfindel said, accepting his own round shield, gripping it with practiced ease. “This shield is relatively small, but it is good for the basics. Other types range from the tower shield, which offers greater protection but less maneuverability, and the buckler which covers little more than the hand. A shield can be a weapon of its own in battle, and I’ve seen as many fall to a well-delivered strike with the edge as I have the slice of a blade. For now though, we use it primarily for defense. You will not have the use of both hands on your blade, so be mindful of the weight and more careful in conserving your energy. Now, begin.”

They began with a similar back-and-forth as they had when first introducing the sword, with Thorin striking overhead and from the side at Glorfindel’s shield, falling into a rhythm that before long left his worries behind in the focus and quiet that descended upon him in battle. They broke for meals, and for further steam sessions, but the training was easy when not weighted down by weak lungs, and only at the end of the lengthening spring day did Thorin begin to feel a leaden weight on his muscles from holding the shield up, and swinging the sword without the aid of his left hand.

Only after so many hours did he venture to score a hit on Glorfindel that was not opened on purpose, by reversing a swing at the last minute for a diagonal swipe at his shoulder from what had originally seemed a blow to the head. Glorfindel inclined his head in acknowledgement, readying for the next round, when Thorin heard a slow clap from behind him.

“Keep this up and I may put you against Bifur next,” Baggins said. He stood by the fencing, standing on the lowest rung and leaning against the top in a pose that suggested he’d been there for longer than Thorin realized. “If you can block a dwarvish berserker, you can block a goblin. Do you mind if I take a turn in the ring?” He directed the last to Glorfindel.

“We have been working since dawn, and he has not had treatment in two hours. In this, I would defer to King Thorin,” Glorfindel said, giving Thorin a sidelong look. “As it is, I feel we have completed the day’s lesson.”

There was a strangeness in his tone, a stiffness towards Baggins that Thorin had not detected in the previous days. Had some quarrel sprouted up between them? Nevertheless, Thorin considered the request, and the state of his lungs. He felt a lingering tightness in his chest, but had pushed through before, and so he gestured for Baggins to enter the ring by his leave, and kept his expression neutral.

Baggins jumped down from the fence and took a place less than a foot from Thorin, squaring himself and setting the shield he accepted from Glorfindel in front of him, as if bracing for a battering ram. He readied his sword over the shield.

“Now, show me what you’ve learned.” Baggins’ voice was quiet, intimate, and would not have carried far beyond the two of them.

Anger kindled in Thorin, anger at Baggins’ quick dismissal the day before, the fact he had not even considered putting Thorin into the fray, or at least told him before the lessons began that it would not be a possibility. Thorin did not stop, did not telegraph his motion, but exploded into action.

Using his greater weight and reach, Thorin slammed their shields together so hard it drove Baggins back a step. The hobbit reacted well, allowing the momentum to carry him back, bare feet dragging along the ground, rather than knock him over, but he was clearly startled by the impact. Thorin gave him no time to recover before he brought the sword around for a hard swing that rattled down his own arm despite the wicker blades when it met Baggins’ hastily upthrust shield.

There was no grace or elegance to it, and little of the technique Thorin had learned when dueling. This was a battle art. It was made to kill, and one as small and slight as Baggins was at an immediate disadvantage against a larger, determined opponent. For each blow from Thorin was fueled by decades of simmering helplessness and anger, exploding into a savagery that he would not have recognized in himself. There was no chance of actually killing the hobbit here, not with the practice weapons, but Thorin allowed himself a satisfied smirk that showed all his teeth when Baggins backpedaled and Thorin landed a blow on his unguarded knuckles that made him flinch.

“Not fit for a battlefield, am I?” Thorin growled with another overhand strike. It bounced off Baggins’ sword block, and he ducked under Thorin’s arm, attempting to sidestep around Thorin, who tracked the motion and squared off to face him. “Just another weakling you must protect?” Baggins stepped in for a blow of his own but Thorin would have none of that. He _slammed_ his shield against Baggins’, knocking him off balance. “Do you know how often I have heard that?” Thorin raised his shield, but as Baggins’ went up to match the movement, he bent his legs and swept his sword under the shield as he brought it up to protect his head. Baggins leapt back just in time, but a second later and the blow would have taken him out at his bare ankles.

“Why are you so angry?” Baggins wheezed, backpedaling. “When all I’m trying to do is save your life?”

“Because I am a _Son of Durin_ ,” Thorin roared, and in it  the memory of a cry, equal parts snarl and desperate plea. “And Durin’s Folk do not flee from a fight!”

The last blow smacked Baggins’ elbow, and all the skill in the world could not stop the body’s reflex once the joint was struck. The impact shivered down in his arm and he dropped the blade, only just bringing up the shield in time to stop Thorin’s next blow.

“I yield!” Baggins shouted from beneath the shield, waving his free hand.

Chest heaving, his lungs beginning to burn with the threat of constriction, Thorin paused. His vision was red with rage and the heat of his blood. “What?” he grated.

“I. _Yield_ ,” Baggins repeated, and to demonstrate he dropped the shield, holding up his empty palms.

The wicker blade was still in Thorin’s hand, the shield braced and at ready. A long, tense moment stretched, as he considered what he might do against an unarmed opponent.

Thorin lowered the tip of the blade, and dropped the shield to the ground, using his now free hand to scrape the loose hair back from his sweat-streaked face. He looked at Baggins, and away. “I have trained for the shield wall before. It is the one place where little running or movement is necessary. One need only stand firm, and with that at least I was trusted. I did not tell this to Master Glorfindel, but then it has been many years since the duties of an heir did not keep me from such pursuits, and I was eager to brush up on my skills.” He looked up again, eyes burning. “You have given me back my life, Master Baggins, but do not presume for a moment that this gives you the right to command it, or that it did not start long before you were born.”

“I will not let you fight alongside my Rangers, Thorin,” Baggins said, his words thin as he caught his breath, but once back steady again he stood firm. “You are too inexperienced, and they have been training as a unit for years. You would only interrupt them, and on the battlefield such interruptions could get them killed. I cannot and will not countenance it. They are _my_ people, as it states in our contract that also outlines _you_ as my employer.”

Thorin examined the wicker blade idly, lifting it to point the padded tip just inches from Baggins’ chest. He tilted his head to the side. “Then what shall we do?”

“The simplest course would be to end the contract, if you would rather serve in the shield wall than reclaim your home. You have your cure, Estel may teach you how to replicate it. You could go back to Ered Luin and start this life you say I gave back to you. The Blue Mountains are a fine colony, I have been there, and there is no shame in ruling it.” Baggins eyed him, and the way Thorin frowned at his words.

“Or,” Baggins continued, this time drawing out the word. “You can take back your homeland. But if you take up that cause, you must do so as king, not as a foot soldier. I do not intend for us to see any fighting before we face old Smaug himself, but if we do and you wish to join the field, you must do so with your own vanguard to protect you, and they must be under my command. As you say, I have no right to keep you from the battle, but I will not risk my Rangers needlessly, not on anyone’s say-so. You may do what you like with your own skin, so long as it does not interfere.”

“Deal,” Thorin said, extending a hand, but Baggins did not take it immediately.

“On which one?” Baggins said dryly.

“What do you think?” Thorin said, arching one black eyebrow. “Do you imagine that I will let the vast wealth of my people go unprotected? No. We will seize this chance to take back Erebor.”

Baggins eyed his hand a moment longer, for it did not waver, and then took it, shaking it firmly. “Erebor it is then.”

“And I will be coming with you.”

“Well, I should hope so, it’s your kingdom…”

“I meant to the Shire tomorrow,” Thorin said with a faint smile.

“Oh! That, well, goodness I should hope so! Primula already made all the arrangements.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-expected trip to the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to emsiecat for the beta help!

Thorin received a knock on his door even earlier than usual, while the sky was still dark. He had only pulled on a loose tunic and trousers to open his door when he heard another. Muttering to himself and wiping the sleep from his eyes, Thorin opened it to find Baggins already dressed. He wore what looked like a winter coat and scarf over his usual jacket and waistcoat, most likely to ward off the cold. It was April, and so far north as Bree the nights still bore their chill well into the summer.

“The ponies are waiting outside, can you be ready in a half hour?” Baggins said, eying Thorin’s room behind him. It was neat enough, though small, as were all the quarters in the Prancing Pony. For various reasons, not the least which was how suddenly he’d been roused, Thorin was trying very hard not to consider that there was speculation in Baggins’ eyes as he looked at Thorin’s rumpled bed.

“I was not aware that we would be leaving so early,” Thorin said. However, he was painfully aware of his own bedraggled state. His hair had escaped its braids during the night and they framed his face and tickled his neck fraying ropes, the rest was a mop that went in every direction and over his eyes until he pushed it away in annoyance. Usually he liked to have a little more time to prepare his appearance, poor as it was, when confronting a potential lover.

“Well, I thought we’d get an early start,” Baggins said, his tone light with good humor. “It’s a good half-day’s ride to the Shire, and I’d like to make it there before afternoon tea. And I…ah…” Baggins hesitated, looking sheepish and yet strangely guarded as he said, “I do not often sleep well before a campaign… or in general. A bad habit of mine, I’m afraid.”

“It is only a holiday ride,” Thorin said dryly. “Not a battle.”

“Indeed, though I cannot say for which I am more at loose ends. Between the two of us, I must confess I’m familiar enough with the bedroom antics, but the softer side of romance, well…” Baggins said with self-deprecating half-smile along with a helpless shrug. Thorin’s heart gave a lurch, as for a moment Baggins let that constant mask of professionalism down and Thorin got just the smallest glimpse of the person beneath. One who could not sleep before campaign. One that could hardly sleep at all, and it took no great speculation to understand why. Thorin had known such sleepless nights well, in the first decades after the fall of Erebor. “But wherever are my manners? You need to change.” Baggins paused, looking far too innocent. “Unless you would like my help?”

Thorin gritted his teeth, as the early wake-up had left him unprepared in other ways as well, and his body chose that look in particular as a reminder of Baggins’ intoxicating presence. “As I recall, it was _your_ rule that we would need 'a good long while.' Unless you wish to cancel the outing entirely?”

“Hmm, the ponies would never forgive me,” Baggins said, his gaze going up and down once over Thorin, and could not fail to notice his current state.

“How ever will you explain it to them?” Thorin said, his voice going low, and he inclined his head, so that his face was just inches from Baggins. He saw the little shiver, the pupils dilating wide with desire, and seizing his chance, Thorin closed the distance. His skin was warm with sleep and Baggins must have been outside for the preparations, for his lips were chilled. They were delicious against Thorin’s, and he sucked at Baggins’ lower lip, nibbling gently.

Baggins made a noise against him, and not an unappreciative one, stepping forward into Thorin’s space. Thorin deepened the kiss with the closer contact, breathing Baggins’ lips, then flicking his tongue against them. Baggins went up on his toes, pushing back, and Thorin saw as his eyes flickered open that the hobbit’s eyes had closed. Perfect.

Thorin broke away, stretching casually and raising his arms over his head so the tunic rode up just short of his torso, showing a hint of his hipbone. Baggins gaped, lips ruddy and shining from the kiss, his cheeks flushed, and Thorin noticed with even greater satisfaction that his gaze went immediately to the bit of skin Thorin had revealed. He had to repress a sly grin as Baggins’ tongue flickered over his lips at the sight.

“Well,” Thorin said casually, voice rich and lazy from his stretch. “I should get ready. I would not wish to disappoint the ponies.”

He closed the door in Baggins’ face.

“Thorin!” Baggins squawked on the other side of the door, and no longer attempting to hide his grin, Thorin opened the door a crack.

“Yes?” Thorin said, with the same innocence that Baggins had employed earlier.

“Oh you wicked… tease!” Baggins huffed, but then his expression grew rueful. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did,” Thorin said with a nod of agreement, but did not open the door rest of the way.

“It’s going to be a very uncomfortable ride now. For both of us, I imagine,” Baggins said.

Thorin arched an eyebrow. “For one of us. You gave me thirty minutes to prepare, and I only need five to dress.” He closed the door again.

He fell against it, laughing under his breath at the last glimpse he had of Baggins’ gawping. He choked harder as a fist slammed against the door, rocking it. “Dammit, Thorin, you can’t just say things like that and lock yourself away. Let me in there!”

“Absolutely not,” Thorin said over his shoulder. “I am dressing, just as you requested. Shouldn’t you be seeing to the ponies?”

Another sigh of frustration, this one edged with a whimper that made Thorin’s sides hurt as he struggled to breathe through his silent laughter. There was a muffled swear, and the sound of retreating feet.

True to his word, Thorin could wash and dress quickly, especially if he left redoing his braids until he was on pony-back. The rest of the twenty-five minutes was taken up by visions of a certain mercenary commander, the feel of his lips on Thorin’s, and imaginings of where they would feel elsewhere. Yet it was not until Thorin’s imaginations drifted to what his own lips could do to Baggins that he finally arched and spilled in his hand.

* * *

He found Baggins outside, as promised. Thorin had found a dark blue tunic in amongst his belongings, of a color that had once garnered him a compliment on his eyes, and he opted for a black leather coat over it, edged with fur to ward off the morning chill. It would no doubt warm up over the course of the day, and he could shed the extra layer as the sun rose.

For the moment it was still bitter out; the sort of cold that only comes at four in the morning after too little sleep, and Thorin winced as it struck him, tightening his lungs. Dry, cold air had always been the worst for his ailment, and with no visit to the camp today there’d be no treatment from Estel. He would have to avoid pushing himself, even as the thought grated, so accustomed had he become to feeling almost like a real dwarf. Only two weeks, and already he could not imagine living without it.

“You’re late,” Baggins said. He was already sitting atop his pony, saddlebags full and his bare feet swinging loose from the stirrups as he waited.

“Not by that much, surely,” Thorin said, throwing his own back over the back of the pony left for him, its chestnut coat fuzzy and thick still from winter.

“Five minutes,” Baggins sniffed, though there seemed no true ill humor in it.

“I should think it would please you,” Thorin said, turning his back as he fitted his foot in the stirrup to pull himself onto the pony.

“To be kept waiting in the cold?” Baggins said.

“That it took so long, even while I was trying to be swift,” Thorin said without looking back.

“And why should that…oh!”

Thorin finally turned them, shooting him a grin. “More time to spend on you later.”

“You think you can keep up?” Baggins said. He tapped his heel against the side of the pony so it pulled up to Thorin’s. Then he leaned over, just as Thorin looked to face him, capturing Thorin’s lips.

“Not if you continue to do that at every stolen moment,” Thorin murmured against his lips, eyelids fluttering as he opened them again. In the distance, the sky was beginning to turn the faint gray of false dawn.

“Hmm, maybe I should stop then, if I want you ready when the time is right?” Baggins countered.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said softly. “That time is any that you desire. I’m afraid your very presence has that effect on me, and what paltry relief I may offer myself counts very little against that tide.”

“Mmm, but at least _you_ had it,” Baggins said with mock severity, furrowing his brow. “Whereas I must spend the day astride, with the loveliest face and form I’ve ever laid eyes on just out of reach, and not even that _paltry_ relief to be had.”

“It is you who insists the first time must be special,” Thorin said, and trailed his lips down Baggins’ jaw and down his throat. Baggins’ gave a muffled whimper, tilting his head back to accept it. “We could always start here.”

At this, Baggins gave a snort. “What, an actual tumble in the hay? I should think I deserve a little more credit than that when bedding a king. It will be a proper, civilized bed for one thing.”

Thorin shrugged, and pulled away. “Your choice,” he said, his voice roughened by the breathlessness of the kiss.

“Ugh,” Baggins said, closing his eyes and righting himself on his pony, looking pained. “You are certainly _not_ making it easy.” He clucked his pony forward, and as he went Thorin could hear muttering on his breath that he was not certain was for his benefit. “Of course his voice is lovely as well, _of course_.”

Thorin smirked.

* * *

They started the ride at an easy walk, the hour so early that there was no need to rush to make it there by teatime, as Baggins desired. Thorin guided the pony with his knees as he removed a comb from one of the saddlebags, unbound and then re-braided his hair, putting the silver beads back in place at the end. Long practice made it easy to do even while on riding, and as the sun rose and the land began to warm he also shed the heavy coat, folding it up and placing it inside one of the saddlebags.

The sun seemed to invigorate Baggins, but Thorin found he was ambivalent to it. Dwarves spent much of their time underground, and were glad of it, seeing no particular difference between night and day what with the natural strength of their vision to see in dim places, while Baggins straightened as the sun rose and cast her rays over the green and dewy hills that made up the farmland outside Bree. Light filtered through the leaves in golden bars, dappling the road before them, and afar the birds stirred to life, setting their morning calls as counterpoint to the beauty of the day.

Baggins looked back over at him, nodding for Thorin to catch up. He clucked at his pony, prodding it until it caught up to Baggins’ own. The hobbit had been silent since their banter before they departed. Thorin raised his eyebrows with interest, inviting Baggins to say whatever was on his mind.

Baggins chewed the inside his cheek a moment, which should have been Thorin’s first warning as he suddenly said, “Tell me of Erebor.”

Thorin blinked, going still as a familiar rush of cold rose within him at the mere mention. “Not one to bandy around the topic, I see.”

Baggins grimaced in apology. “If you do not wish to speak of it, I would understand.”

“No, it is no matter. After all, I asked to know more of your home,” Thorin took a deep breath, casting his memories back over a century, before the great fire drake from the north had upset all he had ever known. “Perhaps it makes most sense to begin with some history, if you can stand the tedium of it?” Thorin said the last with an inquiring eyebrow at Baggins, who snorted.

“I spend my days reading over contracts and quartermaster reports. I assure you, by comparison the history of one of the greatest kingdoms of Middle Earth is a fairy tale,” Baggins said, expression twisting good-naturedly at the mention of the reports.

“Very well,” Thorin said, feeling sympathy for that statement. As heir, and now as king, his days were often the same. Certainly his love of long historical tomes had dimmed with his daily hours now filled with equally long reports on the coal mining operations of Ered Luin. “It is a subject on which I have some familiarity, but nevertheless I will try to be brief. A dwarf who cannot forge or fight has available to him only the gentler pursuits. My history and music tutors were not as despairing as the arms masters.”

Baggins gave a snort of distaste at this, making clear how he viewed said arms masters, but then paused. “You are a musician?”

“A harpist,” Thorin said, thinking of the golden-leaf plated harp he’d left back in Ered Luin. “All dwarves are expected to learn an instrument, not that it is any obligation, it is as much a part of our life as the crafting of beautiful objects.”

“You learn something new every day,” Baggins mused aloud. “I know Bofur and Bifur have their clarinets, and Bombur his drums, but it never occurred to me that was a common pursuit, I only thought they were odd. Most who join my Company are, in some way.”

“I cannot speak to their oddness, but in that at least they are no different than any other dwarf,” Thorin said with a small smile.

“I should very much like to hear you play someday,” Baggins said.

“I should very much like to play for you,” Thorin replied. “The histories were a duty of sorts, but the harp was… mine, in a way that many pursuits were not.” He went quiet at this. He had not meant to be so open, and could not think of any he had told something so personal. It was true though. History had been pushed on to him as a respectable hobby for an heir, and while he took pride in the great deeds of his ancestors, the reading had always chafed as he studied great deeds he could never hope to emulate. The harp at least had carried no such burdens, requiring only patience and skill. With the harp, at least, was no threat that his traitorous lungs would give out on him and shame him. Such instruments as the clarinet though, as Bifur and Bofur played, would have been out of the question. “But to your question?”

“Yes, of course, forgive my distraction,” Baggins said, gesturing for Thorin to continue.

Thorin settled back onto his pony. They’d passed from the sprawling farmland just outside Bree, and in the distance a forest stretched across the horizon, a dark smudge. “Erebor has existed as a colony of the dwarves for time out of mind, at least as far back as the First Age. However, until my grandfather came to it, after the cold drakes drove him and his brothers from their home in the Grey Mountains, it had never been a settlement of any particular wealth.”

“You were not joking when you said you would begin at the beginning,” Baggins said, raising his eyebrows.

“Hush,” Thorin admonished. “You were the one who asked. Now, this all changed when my grandfather, Thrór claimed lordship over the mountain. Before that it was little more than a mining colony, and a poor one at that, drawing some iron scraps from the rock and trading them mostly to the Elvenking in the Greenwood for their arrowheads, and as hooks to the few fishermen who made their home upon the Long Lake. Yet my grandfather had little choice, for there were few other settlements east of the Misty Mountains that could support the refugees of the Grey Mountains, and the Iron Hills where his brother settled could not take all of them. I understand the first few years were difficult, with limited trade partners available in the region and the mountain bearing little wealth of its own. Then something changed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Baggins shift, intrigued, and the unconscious angling brought his pony closer to Thorin’s, so he no longer needed to project his voice to be heard. He continued at a lower volume, for he was not entirely hopeless when it came to a dramatic tale. “They struck gold.”

“What?” Baggins said, pulling back with a look of puzzled surprise. “You mean to tell me after thousands of years mining that mountain, no one had ever found gold there before?”

“Some say there was none to be had,” Thorin said with a shrug. “Others say it was the power of the King’s Jewel, for even the dwarven rings can only multiply gold, not create it from nothing.”

“The King’s Jewel?” Baggins said with a frown. “Forgive me, I’m beginning to realize that my lessons in Khuzdûl neglected much of Dwarven culture.”

“The Arkenstone,” Thorin said, and even after all these years there was reverence in his voice. “The Heart of the Mountain. The Heart of the King. It is said that Thrór went deep within the mountain, and within he found a white gem of surpassing beauty. Yet some whisper it was not only beauty, but power within it. That the king, then only a leader of a band of refugees, told the stone his heart’s desire, and it was granted. From that moment on, the miners began to find great veins of gold within the mountains, gems uncounted, that flowed from their hand in a river of beauty, and wealth.”

At this Baggins snorted. “Come now, you can’t expect me to believe your grandfather wished upon a magic stone to gain the wealth of Erebor?”

Once again, Thorin shrugged. “It was as good an explanation as any. For as you said, not in thousands of years had anyone found a trace of gold within the mountain. Yet soon after my grandfather set the Arkenstone in its place above the throne, wealth began to appear seemingly from nowhere. In less than a year the dwarves of Erebor were no longer refugees clad in rags, but the proud lords of a great kingdom. Dale sprang up overnight to provide a trading outpost for the mountain, and then grew into a great city of its own. The Men provided food, and textiles so that more dwarves could be freed to delve into the mountain. It was a golden age in every sense, where no dwarf worked in drudgery, but all could dedicate themselves to the pursuit of beauty.”

“Hmm. And your grandfather, what happened to him?” Baggins said, looking up inquiringly. “There were rumors of course, some mentions of a sickness that came upon him in his old age?”

Thorin closed his eyes, and for a moment saw a flash of golden light, his grandfather wandering the halls of the treasury in a delirium, though Thorin had been too young at the time to understand what was happening. “He died when the dragon came. Some say they saw him heading to the treasury, the Arkenstone in hand, and that he hoped with his last breath to defend the gold with his life. He did not make it out, but many did not, so who can say if this is true? Others, mostly Men and Elves, have said that a sickness came upon him in his final years, one that made him obsessed with treasure above all else, but that is slander only. He was old by then, but had every reason to be proud of his reign, and the good that it brought to the mountain and all who lived off its bounty.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Baggins said, and sounded solemn, and sincere. “Were you very close?”

“… Yes,” Thorin said after a moment. Memory tightened in his chest and for once it was not the pull of the lack of air. “I am my father’s eldest son, Thrór’s first grandson. By all accounts, my grandfather doted on me from when I was an infant, even when others spoke of exposure as a kindness. He would not hear of it, and forbade any to speak of the possibility in his presence. Even while my father was off on campaign, driving away goblin raiders in the north, my grandfather would always have time for me. He instructed me from earliest childhood in the lessons of kingship. Even when all others turned to Frerin when he first began to show the promise of a warrior, my grandfather would not hear of changing the succession.”

“He had faith in you, I can understand that,” Baggins said.

Thorin grimaced. “You would be one of the few. I miss him greatly, but he was old and lived an honorable life. In some ways I think it was a kindness, that he never saw the fall of the city he gave his life to, never witnessed our reduced circumstances or was forced to suffer in exile from his home.” Thorin felt a touch on his shoulder and looked over to see Baggins’ hand, as the hobbit gave him a look of sympathy. Of course, here was one point in which a feeble king and a proud commander had much in common: the loss of family.

“I have come to terms with it,” Thorin said with a sigh, and rolled his shoulders back, lightening his tone and straightening as he continued in a less solemn tone. “After that, we rounded up what survivors we could find, and traveled west. When the Elvenking of the Greenwood learned of Thrór’s death, he welcomed us into his halls. We were allies, of course, but there was no possibility he could have brought his armies in time to roust the dragon, now that it was firmly entrenched within the halls. He gave what aid he might, ladening us with supplies for our journey from his own stores so we need not rely too long upon his hospitality. From there it was my father’s idea to try the Blue Mountains. I believe he was inspired by Thrór, to look for a modest settlement that could support a large number of dwarves, and hope that our settling there would aid in discovering new wealth. Of course, that did not happen. Ered Luin’s trade is in coal, and besides a few gems there is very little wealth there but what we can trade with others. Still it was a decent life, if a modest one, once we were all settled. My brother settled down with his husband, though my sister and I remain unwed. I saw little of my father except in my capacity as heir. The loss of the mountain hit him hard, and while I know he dreamed of reclaiming it, I think there was some thread of wariness in him that kept him from taking action to reclaim it. He was not the darer my grandfather had been, and seemed to know it well, content in only serving as an administrator to our people.”

“You seem much more like your grandfather then,” Baggins remarked.

“No, I am not my grandfather,” Thorin frowned. “He was a great hero, a legend in his own lifetime. Even if I reclaim Erebor, I will only ever stand in his shadow.”

“Yet you have dared, and your father did not,” Baggins insisted.

Thorin shrugged. “And we shall see if that was a wise course of action before the year is out. Either way, there is not much more to tell that you likely don’t already know. My father died this past year, old age taking him in his sleep, and I was crowned, if crowning is what you can call it when you are little more than a glorified mining administrator. There were very few who protested when I announced my intentions to reclaim Erebor and left my brother as regent, in truth I think most are hoping I die in the attempt, as he was ever the more popular one, a true dwarf. He and his husband Dwalin are beloved by the colony, getting into scraps together ever since they were boys.”

“He sounds like an utter terror,” Baggins snorted.

At this Thorin shook his head. “Never. Frerin has little time for the gentler pursuits, that is true, but he has never bought in to the mutterings of my detractors, and ever we have been close, even when we could not share the same hobbies. He and Dwalin were my closest friends from earliest childhood, I am glad they have one another.”

Thorin toyed with the reins as he said the last, remembering the joyful if not surprising day when Frerin and Dwalin reached their majority, and announced their intentions to wed. They did so as they did all things, covered in sweat and black blood from driving back one of the goblin raids that came down from the Misty Mountains, laughing between stolen kisses or fiercely knocked foreheads, unable to stop touching one another when they were not wrestling or testing one another’s skill at axe throwing. Thorin had hung back, as ever, in the shadows watching as his two best friends became wholly engrossed in one another. He was not upset, could not be at the sight of such joy, at something in this vast and broken world that was so fiercely _right_. Yet he had little hope of finding such a partnership of his own, and there had been a sting in that knowledge.

“And what of your home?” Thorin inquired. “There is very little more to tell of mine, unless you wish to hear over a millennia of the history of the line of Durin.”

“Perhaps another time,” Baggins laughed. “As for mine, well, you will see it soon enough. You’ve already heard the story, I understand.” Thorin choked, but Baggins waved it away. “Hamfast told me you asked. Oh, don’t worry yourself, there was nothing inappropriate about it, I do know how he likes to go on. But you at least seem to understand the loss. It is more than I can say for most of my…companions.” His eyes grew distant, looking out over the rolling hills.

“You can still smell the smoke for years,” Thorin said quietly. “The faintest trace in the air will have your nose up like a tracking hound. It was not a rare occurrence to hear a Dwarf of Erebor awaken in terror at the smell of a cook fire.”

“Or a Hobbit of the Shire,” Baggins agreed. “Perhaps our peoples have more in common than we realized.”

“I would that we did not,” Thorin said. “I wish there had been more warriors on hand to defend your home. A child should not have had to do that.”

“It happened,” Baggins said, shrugging. “And there’s nothing that can be done for it now, except to stop it from happening again. But yes…” he paused. “I wish it had not happened.”


	11. Chapter 11

Thorin’s stomach was just beginning to rumble with the need for a midday meal when they came upon the edges of the Shire. He recognized it at first as an odd smudge on the horizon. At the sight of it, Baggins’ picked his pony up into a trot, riding ahead. Thorin clucked at his own to bring it up to speed, coming over a low rise just behind Baggins, when he saw it.

A stockade. Massive logs, sharped at the end into spikes, faced outward, creating a wall that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. It must have gone on for miles, encircling the acres of farmland, and when he looked closer he saw that every quarter-mile or so there was a guard tower, and from the sight of it they were occupied. Though there seemed to be some dual purpose, for sheep grazed beneath the two Thorin could see on either side. A domestic people, it seemed the hobbits of the Shire had combined a shepherds task with that of a guard. Yet each was fitted with a horn, and torches, most likely so either could be used in case of invaders.

It was… efficient. There was a sort of wickedness about the sharpened stakes, a grudging, inward-turned suspicion of outsiders. It was similar to the wall that surrounded Bree, but on a far larger scale. When Baggins had the money to build his wall of stone, the track would already be laid.

“Adelard Took! What has you out on watch duty on a fine day such as this?” Baggins said, pulling his pony up just below the watchtower that overlooked a great oaken gate that blocked the ending of their road, keeping them from the green of the Shire beyond.

There was a yelp from above, cursing, and the sound of various heavy objects tumbling down and clanging before a mop of brown curls appeared peaking over the side, below which was the flustered, red face of a hobbit.

“Mister Bilbo! You’re here early,” Adelard said, sounding out of breath.

“Well, wouldn’t you know, I am? Early enough to catch you dozing. Good heavens, young man, what if I had been an enemy?” Baggins called up. His tone was light, but Thorin could detect that Baggins was truly cross beneath it.

“I wasn’t dozing! Just doing a bit of reading. I could still hear if anything big was coming,” Adelard protested, and held up a book over the side, waving it as demonstration. The pages flapped in the breeze, half way through and he yelp, quickly putting a finger between the pages before his place was lost.

“Which is just fine, so long as they send their cave trolls in first and not some goblin assassins,” Baggins retorted. “Now, are you going to open the gate or am I going to have to go ‘round testing the defenses again like last time to find my way in?”

There was another squawk and the red face disappeared. A moment later, the heavy door creaked open just far enough to allow the ponies through single file. Adelard was waiting, giving a sheepish little wave at Baggins and Thorin as they road past. Thorin glanced back and saw Adelard’s shoulders fall as he breathed a sigh of relief to see Baggins’ back.

“My cousin on my mother’s side, I’m afraid,” Baggins said.

“You will not chastise him further?” Thorin said.

“Heavens no, I only wanted to rattle him up a bit. Guard duty is dreadfully boring, that’s why the towers are all in sight of one another, in case one of them dozes off. We only put double the guard out in the winter if the Brandywine freezes.”

“Is that when…?”

Baggins’ expression hardened. “When orcs come down from the Misty Mountains.”

* * *

Idyllic was really the only way to describe the Shire. Rolling hills and farmland, dotted with streams and copses of trees. Here and there, Thorin saw smoke coming apparently from the hills themselves, catching glimpses of chimneys rising seemingly from the ground. Yet even for the little he’d seen, he recognized that there were few compared to the sprawl of the land itself, and well hidden. All one needed to was disguise the chimney and the door, and such homes could meld into the countryside. The gardens were set a distance from the homes, couched between several hills so that it was no clear exactly where the dwelling was in relation, and the mailboxes were similarly set apart. A determined attacker would know that a house was nearby, but find it would eat up valuable time. Thorin had heard of the strange dwelling places of hobbits, with their holes in the ground, but these homes seemed modified from that design. Still to the taste of the hobbits who inhabited them, but not as visible. This was a settlement designed for defense, and he could almost pity the orc army that broke through the stockade, when any hillock in the land could be hiding defenders that could pour out seemingly from nowhere, and could not be found or pinned down without onerous searching of every square foot of land.

“You’re admiring the design?” Baggins said, catching Thorin as he studied the countryside with narrowed eyes.

“It is ingenious, if you can make it work,” Thorin replied.

“Hamfast’s design, actually. Each home is responsible for maintaining a bit of boxed earth that can be fitted over the doors and windows. They need to be kept up to snuff so they do not stand out from the rest of land, but once fitted in place you’ll se the Smials just vanish into the ground. A little warning is all that’s needed to set them into place, which is what the horns at the guard tower are for.” There was unmistakable pride in Baggins’ voice as he surveyed the Shire.

Looking closer, Thorin could see the boxes in question, sitting beside the door or window they were fitted to cover, so the sun exposure would not vary from the surroundings. He kept an eye for them as they rode, until they came upon a stone bridge beside a mill and waterwheel. Beyond, a town square, like many he’d seen in the villages of Men, only scaled down to hobbits. Thatched roofs encircled a town square and village green, and there he saw more hobbits than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. There was an air of busyness that only increased as they passed over the bridge, with hobbits stopping their business long enough to wave, or call out to Baggains, who waved. Thorin followed him to the largest building, with a sign out front that read “The Green Dragon” above a carving of the eponymous creature itself.

“Rather appropriate, I suppose,” Thorin muttered, looking up at the sign. Of course the proportions were all wrong, and the wings were separate from the arms, whereas in reality the membrane stretched down from the claws and attached at the back, but he hardly expected hobbits to know that. Was in fact glad that they didn’t.

They left the ponies in the stable, and Baggins lead him into a tavern that was unusually quiet for midday. Only a couple gaffers sat in a table by the window, drinking, and a single barmaid stood behind the counter, wiping down glasses. She perked up at the sight of Baggins, and then ducked beneath the bar, pulling up a pair of woven baskets.

“Bilbo, what a delight! Prim sent word along, and here are your lunches waiting, all ready. Sandwiches and some snacks, oh and she included a bottle of wine as I understand it’s a special occasion,” she said, dimples appearing on her rosie cheeks as she looked over at Thorin, who felt the all-too familiar blush that all hobbits seemed to delight in eliciting from him.

“Thank you, Lily,” Baggins said, taking up the basket and hefting it. “Please send along my compliments to Prim, this is quite lovely.” He turned back to Thorin. “Hungry? I thought we’d walk a little ways and set up for a picnic, if you’ll hold this for just a moment I’ll make sure the ponies are settled.”

Baggins handed Thorin the basket, and headed off, returning with one of the smaller saddle bags  tossed over his shoulder and his cloak gone. He stood now in a burgundy velvet jacket and green waistcoat, garb one might see on any of the hobbits that wandered the village, if perhaps a bit finer in quality. It was odd to see him so dressed, reminding Thorin of the first time he’d laid eyes on Baggins, and been incredulous at the idea of a warrior comporting himself thus.

Baggins stopped, looking over at Thorin with a wry expression. “Is there something on my shirt?”

“I was only admiring the view,” Thorin said, very pointedly not looking out to the pictaresque landscape beyond the windows of the Green Dragon.

Baggins scoffed, rolling his eyes, but nevertheless offered his arm to Thorin as they left the tavern.

* * *

Country paths wound through the green hills of the Shire, lined with wild grasses and neater trimmed lawns and vegetable gardens. The sun shone with the pleasant heat of middle spring, a cool breeze playing in their hair as they walked hand in hand, baskets hanging from both their free hands. A memory that Thorin would cherish for many years, though it would be many more before it would truly hit him, this rare moment of quiet and green with Baggins at his side. A long time before he would know such peace again.

“It is hard to belief that it was ever the sight of sorrow,” Thorin said as they came upon a hill of lilacs that covered what a keen eye could see was one of the few hobbit dwellings.

“Mmm,” Baggins said beside him. A weight seemed to have fallen from his shoulder as he wandered the lands of his home. Some of the hardness of his features, the hidden cunning, relaxed a look of soft contentment. “One may even say the fire was good for the land. The grass returned first, then the flowers and now the trees. There are still some signs though.” Baggins paused beside a stone that was covered in a thick fall of wild grass, moving it aside with his toe.

The rock beneath was scorched black, speaking of a conflagration enough to make Thorin, or any dwarf familiar with fire, blanch at the sight. Baggins shrugged though, as if it were of no account, and covered the stone over again.

“It will never fully heal, but one can hope we will be made stronger for it, as the land has been,” Baggins said.

“You seem at peace with this,” Thorin remarked, looking over at Baggins, seeking some sign of deeper turmoil.

Baggins shrugged. “You come to terms, or you will eat yourself alive with pain and regret. It took me ten years amongst the Rangers before I could even look upon the Shire again. I learned much while I was with them, not the least that it is a leader’s duty to take charge of such emotions, before he can take charge of others.

“How do you forgive it?” Thorin said softly. They said only a tenth of the hobbits had survived the assault by orcs during the Fell Winter, and the famine that followed. He tried to imagine it as it had once been, with many times the number of homes, not concealed beneath their hills and the roads busy with Baggins’ people.

“You don’t,” Baggins said. “You just focus on the next day, and the next day, and the next, and make sure it never happens again.” He stopped as they came to the top of one of the low, rolling hills. “Do you see that, there in the distance?”

Thorin squinted, following where Baggins pointed. As far as he could tell, there were only more hills, some larger than others, some covered in flowers or wild grasses. Beyond, smoke rose from the tavern of the Green Dragon, nestled beside the small lake at the center of the town.

“That’s Bag End. Or it was,” Baggins said. His hand fell back to his side. Thorin squinted, still unable to see quite where Baggins was pointing. “We can mount a defense from there, if need be. It has room enough to fit the militia, some two hundred soldiers if they don’t move around too much. The cellars have one the larger caches of our weapons.”

Thorin frowned. “But is it not your home?”

Baggis was silent a long moment, staring off into the distance. “Not anymore. To me, it is only a tomb.” He shook himself, glancing further down the road they were walking. “I thought, might as well make use of all that space. Most of the homes may double as a base if necessary, Bag End is one of the few that has no other purpose. So at least it is seeing some purpose.”

“I should still like to see it,” Thorin said carefully. “It is the site of your childhood. That must still matter for something.”

But at this, Baggins shook his head. “No. That is the one place I have not visited since the night it burned. I’m sorry, Thorin, not even for you would I do so. It is better this way. It lives on in my memory as it once was, filled with light, the sound of my mother’s laughter, and the smell of my father’s pipeweed. It ended…” He swallowed. “It ended, yes, but the good memories outnumber the bad. I would not replace them, or risk damage to them.” He straightened, losing his solemnity with a grin, but Thorin felt the itching uncomfortable feeling it was only a mask. “In any case, the Shire is my home, not just one building of it, and mark my words you will see plenty of it.”

He continued down the road again, as if eager to leave the sight of Bag End behind, bare feet stirring the dust and pebbles of the dirt road. Why bare feet? Did the stones not pierce them, the cold not pinch? It was easily the oddest thing about hobbits, the place where they differentiated from being merely smaller Men. Or so Thorin would have said once. As he took one last glance over his shoulder at the hills, one of which contained Bag End, he thought there was more to them now than ever that defied expectation. Thorin did not know if he could do it, leave a home as nothing more than a tomb, to move on from it and only concern himself with his people, a sole leader who must put all that was himself aside to see to their wellbeing. He’d always had his father, and his siblings, and his people, even those detractors of his merit.

Baggins was alone.

With that thought, the urge to take Baggins’ hand again was overwhelming, and Thorin caught up, hestitating only a moment before doing just that. Baggins took it without glancing back at him, squeezing Thorin’s hand hard. With his other arm, he hefted the basket, and rubbed his forearm over his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath as he led them further down the winding paths of the Shire.

* * *

They eventually settled down some distance from the center of the town, at the edge of what appeared to be one of the larger farms. At their backs a corn field rose, filling the landscape, and Baggins set a blanket down in the shadow of an oak tree, removing sandwiches and even a bottle of wine from the basket. The walking had been thirsty work, and they lingered over he food and wine for some hours, the shadows lengthening into late afternoon as they sat in comfortable silence, taking in the landscape.

The shadow of Bag End was fading from their minds, banished by the gentle afternoon sunlight on an unseasonably warm day. Food, but the wine especially worked its magic until when with only a few drops, cheeks feeling quite flushed, Thorin looked at Bilbo sidelong.

“So…. There is no one around for many miles?” Thorin said archly.

Bilbo snorted. “It’s the middle of a field, and by now the farmers will be going home soon. I assure you we’re quite alone out here – _Oof_!”

Thorin pulled Baggins down, and with it upsetting his trousers so they hung on Baggins’ hips. He pulled them down the rest of the way, guiding, Bilbo to rest his back against the tree that shadowed him, as Thorin’s mouth pressed to the soft curve of his belly, tracing down words, his beard and teeth scraping gently as his lips paid their homage.

Baggins’ head thudded back with a muffled moan as Thorin found his goal, and taking Baggins’ already stiffening cock in his mouth, and swallowing it deep. His own ached and pulsed with need as he sucked. The noises that began to pour from Baggins’ lips were delicious, utterly shocked, pleased, then breathy as Thorin had only dared imagine as he took the hobbit deep enough for the tip of his nose to brush his skin, before pulling back again, holding it steady with his fingers wrapped around the base, pumping in time with his mouth.

He closed his eyes, bliss washing over him to finally touch and taste what he had been craving since he first laid eyes upon the one they called Mad Baggins. The salt of pre-cum burned at the back of his throat,  and he could feel the pulse of the vein as Baggins shivered and writhed beneath him, his fingers coming up to gently grasp Thorin’s hair, stroking his hands through it, his fingers shuddering and clenching before he quickly eased them again, as if mindful of being too rough even in the throes of his own pleasure. Thorin butted against him, unwilling to take his mouth free, but the message was clear: harder.

Baggins’ fingers twisted into Thorin’s hair, pulling tight as his moans grew louder, sharper, and his fingers clenched and unclenched to a rhythm Thorin began to match, drawing new cries from him. He looked up through his lashes, and saw Baggins’ face flushed, coming apart beneath him. He was looking down at Thorin, already wrecked, need written in every line of his expression as it crumpled.

“Beautiful, so— _ah!_ —beautiful I can’t… oh, I… _Thorin_!” Baggins gasped hips shuddering beneath Thorin’s hand. Not yet, not quite yet. He reached around with his free hand, gripping Baggins’ arse to stabilize himself and it sent another heady wave of pleasure through him as Baggins actually _whimpered_ and began to babble, that word over and over again ‘beautiful’ and ‘ah!’ and ‘I’ and ‘you’, never quite able to form a coherent thought.

(None of his lovers had ever called him beautiful before, not in a way that he believed them, and Thorin’s heart thundered in his chest, his cock throbbing between his legs and _yes_ , this is what they had meant, this is what he had needed without knowing what it was. The very act of giving this pleasure had him teetering on the edge of his own, each shiver that ran through Bilbo’s body drawing an answering one in his own.)

He was surrounded by him, by the touch and taste of scent of him, and if there was a great bliss then Thorin did not know it. At least, not until Baggins gave a finally, shuddering cry, his hands squeezing Thorin’s hair in warning, but Thorin did not move. He had done this before, but never for one for whom he enjoyed the act so much, and he did not move until it was to gently release Baggins and wipe the back over his mouth once he was spent.

“Ah… _ah_ …” Baggins panted, allowing his legs to go out from under him so he slid down the bark and onto the ground with a thump. “I… _oh_ … that was…”

“Surely nothing you haven’t experienced before?” Thorin said archly, but could not help but preen inwardly at Baggins’ dazed expression.

“Rarely with such enthusiasm. Am I still alive? I feel like after that I must have floated away across the Sea,” Baggins said.

“And what makes you say that?” Throin said, happy to tease if it gained him a more detailed reaction. Baggins’ pupils were blown wide as he looked at Thorin, and his own desires had not yet been seen to but it was an image he would gladly take with him for lonely nights, that of Baggins looking at him, wrecked and ruined, his lips red from biting down on them to suppress his cries.

“Surely nothing that good can exist this side of it,” Baggins said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tree as his breathing slowed. He looked almost on the verge of drifting off when he opened his eyes again. “Oh, but you!”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…” Thorin began, but it ended in a chuckle as a cunning look came over Baggins’ face, and though his movements were languorous they were playful as he pushed himself up from the tree, creeping towards Thorin and guiding him to lie back down onto the blanket.

“Remember that water skin I told you not to drink from?” Baggins said, arching an eyebrow and reaching to the second basket to pull out said skin. He shook it, and Thorin heard the slosh of liquid within. “I heard dwarves take quite some time, and I would like very much of it to find out if that is true.”

* * *

Dazed and pleasantly sore, they dozed off side by side as night fell, and when Thorin awoke the sky was black, the stars littering the heavens like diamonds on a jeweler’s black velvet  display, reminding him of his childhood, when he had looked up at the fireflies trapped within Erebor’s halls, and thought they were stars.

“I thought you said our first time would be somewhere civilized, like a bed,” Thorin murmured in Baggins’ ear, and was rewarded with a snort.

“Hmmph, well I was hardly expecting a king to be so instent about a tumble in a field,” Baggins said, his voice thick with drowsiness.

“Perhaps I appreciate the novelty,” Thorin said, nuzzling against Baggins’ neck.

“You’ll appreciate the novelty of a bed again soon enough once we’re out on campaign,” Baggins muttered back. He shifted, wincing, “As a blanket alone is rarely a shield against stones. Budge over a bit, will you?” Thorin obliged, inching back and pulling Baggins again against him as he got comfortable. He reached under the blanket, flicking a stone away, out into the grass. “I haven’t spent a night outdoors in the Shire like this since I was a tween.”

“It seems a loss, the stars are lovely,” Thorin said, shifting onto his back. He kept his arm open, allowing Baggins to shift over beside him. Baggins put a head under his head,  follow suit and staring up into the night sky.

“True,” Baggins said. “For truly spectacular skies, the Shire can hardly be beaten. At least, when it isn’t raining. All this greenery does not come from nothing, let me assure you.”

Thorin huffed a laugh. “Then we are indeed fortunate this evening.” He went silent for a moment. “I wish we did not have to leave.”

“Even if you changed your mind, I could not,” Baggins said, and had gone very still, his gaze fixed upon the sky. “I must away again before the year is out, if not for your contract then another.”

“I know,” Thorin said quietly. “And I will not steer from my course. We will go together.” He curled his arm around Baggins, and the hobbit obliged, edging closer and putting his curly head on Thorin’s shoulder. “I only wish, for a little while, that we could linger, and that this was all that we need ever know.”

“In a better world, perhaps,” Baggins said, eyes flickering closed. “Maybe someday.”

“Someday,” Thorin echoed.


	12. Chapter 12

Thorin and Baggins saw little of the room promised to them by Primula, save to take a bath in its copper tub when they returned to the Green Dragon in the morning, still dusty and warn from their night spent out in the Shire fields. They could not linger as long as they might have wished, only stopping long enough to wash off the worst of the dust and ache, before repacking their belongings and breaking their fast in the common room.

From there it was back on the road before noon, if they were to have any hope of making it to Bree before nightfall.

The journey passed convivially, with comfortable looks that carried in them the heat of the previous evening, and that barrier of unfamiliarity that once lingered between them all but melted. It was one of those sun-soaked mornings so rare to the Shire, without any hint of rain.

They made good time, such that it was still light out when they arrived in Bree, and realized something was wrong.

* * *

“Master Baggins, thank goodness you’re back. They’ve insisted they see the camp!” Hamfast said, puffing as he came running from the Prancing Pony.

Baggins hopped down from his pony, shoving the reins towards the stable boy and was already walking at full stride beside Hamfast when Thorin managed to rid himself of his own mount and catch up.

“Who, Hamfast?”

“Dwarves, sir! A whole host of them, and they’re wearing the sigil of Ered Luin!” He cast a significant look at Thorin. “Begging your pardon, your Majesty, but with you here I don’t know who it could possibly be with so rich a caravan!”

“Frerin,” Thorin breathed, picking up his pace. Baggins shot him a look.

“What would your brother be doing this far south?”

Thorin shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Baggins' lips thinned. “I was afraid of that.”

In ten minute’s time they’d reached the hill above the Company’s camp and there, they froze.

A pavilion had been erected in the field beside the practice ring, bearing the blue sigil of Ered Luin as Hamfast described. How they’d manage to unload and erect it baffled Thorin, for he and Baggins had only been gone a day and a half. Ill luck, perhaps, for it could not be timing as they had not spread word of their holiday to any save their respective second-in-commands, Balin and Paladin Took.

The Company was not at the training fields as they should have been, rather they seemed at a loss as to what to do with a royal entourage on their doorstep, like a carnival that had an audience a day before the show was to start. The mercenaries were milling around, and Thorin saw on “dwarven” side of the camp that Bombur was making frantic conversation with the apparent leader, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he bobbed and bowed and gestured with bewilderment towards Bree.

At the sight of Mad Baggins, a cheer went up from the Company, and Bombur looked as if he would faint in relief as the dwarf he was speaking to turned and Thorin saw it was indeed none other than his brother.

Frerin loomed above Bombur, as tall as Thorin but seeming larger for the fact he filled out the height. He was broad across the shoulders, clothed now in red and gold, a regent’s circlet in his golden hair. At the sound of the commotion he turned, hand falling easily to his sword hilt, and at the sight of Thorin descending the hill his expression dawned into a welcoming grin.

“Brother!” Frerin bellowed, meeting Thorin half-way and dragging him into a hug that all but knocked the wind out of Thorin, who had pushed himself to the limit of labored breathing in their rush to reach the camp. “So you’ve finally emerged from wherever they’ve been hiding you?”

“Not hiding,” Thorin said gravely as he pulled away. “Gone to scout the surrounding territories. Had I known of your arrival, I would have postponed the trip. What are you doing here, Frerin? Who is seeing to Ered Luin in your absence?”

Frerin waved the concerns away. “Dis. Truth be told probably doing a better job than I ever could. So, why the secrecy?”

Thorin winced. “It was not a matter of secrecy as such, but I question the wisdom of announcing our departure, and destination, so widely where ears may carry the news where it should not go.”

“Nonsense, brother, you rely overmuch on secrecy. With word gone ahead, those lords who rule between here and Erebor will see fit to house your men and your coming will be heralded with joy. What were you planning to do, skulk about like a thief in the night? You would be treated as criminals and vagrants, especially if _this_ is the best you could dig up,” he said the last under his breath, leaning in, and Thorin found himself bristling instinctively at the insult to the Company.

“Those are _my_ soldiers you speak of,” Thorin retorted.

“Your mercenaries, you mean. Father would have a fit, Mahal welcome his soul,” Frerin said dryly. “Honestly, Thorin, I trust your judgement, but there are Halflings amongst this band, Halflings! What will they do, chop at Smaug’s ankles?”

Thorin looked over his shoulder at Baggins. He stood in the middle of the camp, looking as flustered as Thorin had ever seen him, rounding up gawking Rangers and making soothing motions towards Bombur as he snapped some orders that were outside of Thorin’s hearing. The dwarves of Ered Luin had settled into Baggins’ world like a boulder tossed into a pond, the orderly ranks gathered around the tents with steel in their eyes, clearly ill at ease to have a second armed host in the midst of their own.

“How they will defeat Smaug is not the matter at hand. Frerin, I ask you again, _why_ are you here?” Thorin said, turning back to his brother. They were of a height, for all that Frerin was broader and sturdier than him, so he was able to look his brother in the eye as he jerked him closer by the arm. Frerin looked surprised to be pulled over at all, much less knocked off-kilter, but leaned as bidden. Further away the guards gathered, and Thorin pitched his voice low.

A volume Frerin matched, instantly ringing the alarm bells in Thorin’s mind as his brother whispered, “We received word of a contract.”

“I should hope you did, Balin sent the raven last week,” Thorin said, frowning. “Along with word that I will be absent at least until the year is out, and if any longer I will send word.”

“Or you will have been eaten by a dragon, or perhaps abandoned in the woods by these cutthroats,” Frerin retorted. “I don’t trust them, Thorin.”

“We do not need to trust them, we only need to pay them,” Thorin said.

“That’s what Balin said,” Frerin grimaced.

“And why exactly did you not listen?” Thorin said. The commotion behind them was growing louder. It seemed Baggins was now in a shouting match with, of all people, Dwalin. Frerin’s husband was nearly twice Baggins’ size, resplendent armor and furs, absolutely towering over the mercenary leader who was shouting up at him totally irrespective of this fact.

“Indeed, but we generally like to know of visitors _before_ they come visiting!” Baggins snapped. “Now, you will move this tent out of my camp or so help me I will set my elves on you!”

“Aye, I’d like to see you try,” Dwalin growled down at the hobbit, sending Baggins rounding on Thorin.

“Thorin, will you not control your people? This is outrageous, utterly unacceptable! There is a civilian town not a mile away for a reason!” Baggins said.

“Terribly convenient so that none may keep an eye on you. What were you promised, mercenary? Half of Erebor’s wealth and you would take a grieving prince halfway ‘round the world to an early grave? Or did you plan to bury him somewhere in the Misty Mountains?” Frerin snapped.

“ _King_ Thorin will be afforded the very best protection money can buy, you lumphead. My Company has not lost a king yet and we’re not about to start, a reputation which cannot be extended to the dwarves of Erebor!” Baggins was stalking towards Frerin, hand on the hilt of his sword though he had not yet drawn, and Thorin could suddenly see as if gifted with foresight what would happen if his brother and his lover were to meet in the middle.

“Are you speaking of my grandfather?” Frerin said, rounding on Baggins and putting Thorin at his back. “Because if you are, _Halfling_ —!”

“Silence!”

Silence obliged. It fell upon the camp like a blanket, save for the chirping of the spring birds. A score of shocked faces turned on Thorin, who stood panting in the space between Frerin and Baggins. His vision speckled at the edges for the great lungful of air he’d dragged in before bellowing, yet distantly he was shocked at himself, for it was more than he’d ever been able to attain in the past, and this after only a short week of exercises.

It seemed his brother was equally shocked at the volume, standing stock-still, staring as if poleaxed at Thorin. In a moment their shock would wear off, if he did not act fast. He rounded on the dwarves of Ered Luin.

“ _You_ , all of you, will pick up camp _now_ , and move it to the edges of Bree. As for _you_ ,” he said, turning to Baggins. “What are you doing? We have a _week_ before the road to Erebor. I expect to see these Rangers back to running drills before the hour is up, or I will begin to seriously reconsider what I am paying for.” Then he grabbed his brother by the arm, dragging him back in the direction of Bree. “As for you, you will go to Balin _now_ , and he will apprise you of the situation. You may be Regent, Frerin, but only in my absence. I will not have you undermining my authority in front of outsiders, do you understand?”

Frerin was staring at Thorin in open-mouthed shock. Thorin was distantly aware that this may be the first time he’d raised his voice to his brother since they were children, or at least done so without it ending in a violent coughing fit.

“ _Do you understand_?” Thorin reiterated, snapping Frerin from whatever daze had taken him.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Frerin said, and though Thorin searched he found no trace of mockery.

“Good. On your way then, I will be along shortly,” he said, pushing his brother ahead of him with a hand on his back. He turned back to the camp, apologies already waiting on his lips for his rough treatment of Baggins and his troupe, when he saw Baggins already waiting, arms crossed and foot tapping, such a grin across his face it looked as if it would split in half. “I’m sorry you had to see that…” Thorin hazarded, trailing off as he saw the grin Baggins wore looked rather dazed.

“Oh, oh not at all,” Baggins said, shaking his head. “You know, I was wondering when I would get to meet the king.”

Thorin frowned, “What do you mean? You’ve already met me.”

“What I mean?” Baggins said, moving in closer so he stood right in front of Thorin, beckoning him to lean his ear in. Thorin obliged, and felt Baggins' finger loop through the front of his shirt, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Is that you were magnificent, and I have a great number of plans for how to serve a king this evening.”

Thorin sputtered, jerking away to see Baggins grinning up at him, cocking an eyebrow in silent understanding. “This evening, you say?” Thorin said, more like wheezed as the lungs that had so far served him well strangely gave out.

“Oh yes,” Baggins smirked. “Now, on your way. I have a company to see to and you a family, I’m not sure which of us I envy more.”

* * *

Thorin knew within ten minutes which he would have preferred. Getting a well-trained military force back on track seemed eminently preferable, no matter how riled or ill-tempered they might be, compared to facing a brother who he swore was actually _sulking_ at him for the first time since they had sprouted beards.

“I don’t like it, Thorin,” Frerin groused, looking up. They sat around the table in one of the private rooms of the Prancing Pony, Balin, Frerin, Dwalin, and Thorin himself. Balin, normally a paragon of patience, looked ready to snatch out his own beard even if they had stopped the tirade towards his brother, and Frerin was not making matters easier. “I don’t trust this Baggins fellow.”

“We do not need to trust him, we simply need to pay him!” Balin pointed out, in a voice that was growing closer to a snarl with every breath.

“Aye, over the Misty Mountains and into the maw of a fire-breathing abomination,” Dwalin rumbled. “If he doesn’t stick ye in the back before then.”

“And lose all his business when it gets out that he’s betrayed a client?” Balin snorted.

“Who’s to know?” Frerin said. “If not for your raven you might have been half-way to Rivendell right now with none the wiser.”

“I trust Master Baggins,” Thorin said quietly. All eyes turned on him, and he kept his voice low as he continued, hands crossed behind him as he paced beside the table. “Their self-interest is more aligned with taking us to the Mountain than leaving us to die on some hillside. Should they succeed, they will be the most famed and sought-after mercenary company in the West. A far greater prize awaits them that whatever paltry reward they may pick from our corpses.”

“On the road, perhaps, but who’s to say they won’t stick ye once the dragon is dead?” Dwalin said. “I agree with Frerin, I don’t trust ‘em. Last month you were as against mercenaries as your father, Durin watch his soul, and now you’re ready to pack up with them and be gone within the week. What’s the hurry?”

“Erebor has already languished too long,” Thorin retorted. “I’ve seen their company and revised my opinion. Your brother was right to advise in their favor, if not for Mad Baggins there would be no other reasonable option.”

“And what has you so certain?” Dwalin said, turning to his brother.

Balin huffed a sigh. “I received irrefutable intelligence from them that they had a warrior that could very well succeed against the beast. If not for him, I would never have taken a look into their services at all.”

“And who is this “warrior”?” Frerin said, uncrossing his arms and straightening in his chair. It had been built for Men, but with Frerin’s broadness of shoulders and height he filled it easily to overflowing. The beads in his mustache and beard clicked when he moved, and when he leaned forward and put brawny arms before him on the table Thorin’s gaze could not help but flicker to his brother and away. There was one between the sons of Durin's house that had the natural authority of Thror, and Thorin had long known which of the two of them it was.

“The Balrog Slayer is among them,” Thorin said, his words short and clipped. There was an intake of breath as both Frerin and Dwalin gaped, exchanging a look as if they could read one another’s thoughts. “Is that enough to satisfy you? He has slain dragons before, and wishes to try his hand at ours.”

Frerin contemplated this a long moment, and Thorin had just released the breath he did not know he was holding, relieved that this debacle may soon be behind them, when Frerin shook his head. “No. I cannot allow it, Thorin. This Halfling will take advantage of you and our kingdom for his own ends. What does he know of the pride of the dwarves, or the value of our home, except in how it can benefit him? We should return immediately to Ered Luin and put this all behind us.”

Thorin went still. “ _You_ will not allow it?” he said, voice low and cold.

Frerin raised his chin in challenge, body moving like a mass of boulders as he stood, placing his knuckles on the table as he faced Thorin. “I will not stand idly by while my brother throws his life away.”

“It is not _thrown away_ in the cause of reclaiming the homeland of our people!” Thorin said, rising to his feet and mirror his brother’s gesture, placing his hands before him on the table as well as he leaned in, voice turning to flint. “I should think a warrior of your prowess would not shrink from such a fight, or hold others back from it.”

“I fight the scum that comes down from the Misty Mountains to defend _our_ _home_ in Ered Luin! Erebor is _dead_ , and I have lost enough family to it already!” Frerin exclaimed.

“Erebor is _not_ dead so long as there are dwarves who remember it, and I will not be stayed from my course. One way or another, you will be a king, brother, of that I can assure you,” Thorin said, but Frerin was already shaking his head.

“Thorin, don’t you see I would rather have you alive than be king of either? This is madness! We could not defeat Smaug with _thousands_ of dwarven warriors, even with the advantage of our own stronghold. The Balrog Slayer is only one man. Anyone who tells you that he alone will be enough, that even forty would be enough, is _lying_ ,” Frerin pleaded. “Thorin, I _beg_ you reconsider.”

Thorin hesitated. Frerin’s blue eyes were beseeching, and beside them Balin and Dwalin exchanged glances, neither speaking, not even to choose a side. Could he face the shame of it? Returning to Ered Luin, to the whispers of his unworthiness, knowing that like his father he had seen a chance to retake their home and cast it aside? To tell the once proud dwarves of Erebor that they would spend the rest of their days clawing after the coal and what few scattered gems the Blue Mountains could yield, wrangling guild masters, as they faded, bit by bit, into an Age where dwarves were little more than glorified merchants? They who had once possessed the wealthiest kingdom east of the sea?

Baggins could do it. Thorin knew it, he could feel it in his bones, and it was not only the Company, or his tame Elf Lord that made him think thus. Smaug was, in the end, only a beast. He could be out-thought and destroyed. What had Baggins said that first night? _The world would give what was needed, if only one had the courage to seize it._

“There is no choice in this, Frerin, not for me,” Thorin said. He stepped closer, put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “Know at least that should I fall, I will do so more alive than I have ever been. Can you accept that, and be happy for me?”

Frerin looked even more miserable at the prospect. “Let me come with you, at least.”

“You are needed in Ered Luin,” Thorin said firmly. “Come, have some faith. I am not dead yet, and I truly believe we will succeed. Would that not be a wonder? Can you remember, Frerin? Chambers filled with golden light, the seat of our grandfather, the pride of our nation?

“Not so well as you I’m afraid,” Frerin sighed. “But then, my vision has never been fixed so high.”

“So after all this fuss, we’re just going to turn around?” Dwalin grumbled.

“No, you can’t be doing that now,” Balin huffed, earning a questioning look from the room. He leaned forward, clasping his hands before him on the table. “Frerin, lad, your heart was in the right place to be sure, but we can’t very well let it get out that the regent disobeyed his king.”

“ _Disobeyed_? I would never!” Frerin protested but Thorin held up a hand.

“You abandoned your post in Ered Luin to try to haul me back like an unruly child,” Thorin said, anger flickering in his gut. “What’s more, you did so in front of strangers that will soon be under my direct command.”

“Strangers that may just as soon gut you and leave you by the side of the road!” Frerin snapped.

Thorin’s glare was hard. “Be that as it may, you are not king, Frerin. You rule only in my absence and I am very much present here.” His jaw twitched but after a moment he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And now we have a dwarven retinue outside and word spreading to all the corners of the West that the king may not step out his door without having a small army sent to fetch him. What are we to do about this?”

Frerin stilled, expression twisting as it went pale. “Brother, I didn’t think… I wouldn’t! I was only—”

“Looking out for me, I know,” Thorin said. As he always had. The illness had reversed the natural order of older brother looking out for younger, and as Frerin grew in size and fighting prowess it had been he often as not who defended Thorin against his detractors. Likely Frerin had thought nothing of summoning his husband and his warriors to charge down to Bree and rescue him. Yet Thorin could already see it, returning to Ered Luin along with Frerin would make it seem his brother was right. The guild masters would be impossible to manage, the whispers of his incompetence would spread, as if weakness of the body also meant weakness of the mind. Even if Frerin should return and confess his error the damage would be done.

“So,” Thorin said, looking around the room, “what are we to do about this?”

* * *

Baggins stared. Beside them the fire crackled in the Prancing Pony’s hearth, and the hobbit had taken up his customary place in his armchair, which Thorin currently leaned against as he relayed the news.

“A party?” Baggins said flatly, as if unable to believe his ears.

Thorin sighed for what felt like the hundredth time since they’d come back to Bree to discovery his brother was on their doorstep. “Yes.”

“And whose brilliant idea was that?” Baggins said, giving Thorin a look of exasperation as if he’d come up with it himself.

“Not mine, if that is what you fear. It was Balin’s suggestion,” he said, and before Baggins could interrupt he held up a hand. “There is some wisdom in the plan, I assure you, or I would not have countenanced it. By coming to Bree, Frerin has called the succession into question, as well as my authority. It was not his place, and Ered Luin will no doubt be in disarray if it comes out that the king has been chased down by his younger brother.”

Baggins’ lips twisted into a half-frown. “Well, there is reason in that. But I fail to see the issue. Once we have Erebor, there’s much not much the whispers can do to touch you.”

“ _If_ we reclaim it,” Thorin said with a significant look. He dared not think on it overmuch, but there was always a third possibility besides victory or noble death. If they found the task unachievable for any reason he would need to return to Ered Luin in further disgrace. “It is an unworthy legacy to leave behind in any case.”

Baggins sighed. “Very well, it is your decision. When can we expect these festivities?”

* * *

“The end of the _week_?” Balin had exclaimed. “To organize a feast? Might as well have told us to make it tomorrow for all the time we have to prepare!”

Thorin resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, or better yet in the ground and pretend none of this was happening. “It need not be an event for the ages, Balin. Only enough to convince Ered Luin that Frerin came here by my orders and not in spite of them.”

Balin sucked at his teeth, considering. “I suppose… we could enlist the aid of Bree’s taverns. How do you intend to keep the Company and Frerin’s retinue busy until then?”

Thorin’s expression became grim. Baggins was not going to like this, but then, this was why he was being paid. “We’ll put them to work.”


	13. Chapter 13

By the time Thorin made it back to his quarters it was too late to seek Baggins out and invite him to join, as had been his intent that morning when they rode in from the Shire. The next day saw him in a foul mood as he stalked to the camp at dawn. The spring mist was heavy in the air, weighing down the landscape with moisture and fog and his boots were already soaked by the time he arrived. The camp was still in chaos, not yet settled from the intrusion the day before and while the dwarves of Ered Luin had moved as ordered, their presence was still keenly felt on the well-oiled machine of Mad Baggins’ Company.

His morning treatment with Estel went smoothly enough, however, and it was nearly time for the elevensies enjoyed by the Company’s Halfling contingent before he looked up and saw that his sparring sessions with Glorfindel had an audience.

Dwalin was leaning on the fencepost, knuckle-dusters glinting in the morning light. He’d not said anything to interrupt, only watched Thorin go through the forms, observing the back and forth between a dwarven king and an elven lord in the camp of a hobbit mercenary as if it were no different than a morning training session in Ered Luin.

“Can we be of some service, Master Dwarf?” Glorfindel said, arching an eyebrow, but Thorin waved him down absently, walking over to where Dwalin stood, who nodded in acknowledgement as he approached.

“So this is what’s got you all twisted up in this place. They found a way to cure ye,” Dwalin said to Thorin without ceremony.

“Aye,” Thorin replied warily. He was not yet sure how much of Frerin’s expedition had been Dwalin’s idea.

Dwalin nodded thoughtfully. “And they’re teaching you to fight?”

“Yes, and he is an apt pupil,” Glorfindel said, joining his student by the edge of the ring. “I believe we have not been introduced?”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service,” Dwalin said, inclining his head rather than offering the full bow. Dwalin as much as any dwarf was wary of elves for their races’ history together, a luxury Thorin did not buy into quite as deeply as king. He wondered what Dwalin would think if he were to learn of Glorfindel’s identity.

“The husband of the regent? Word of your exploits together in the North have reached even our humble doorstep,” Glorfindel said, bowing slightly to Dwalin, whose expression twisted with suspicion.

“Aye,” Dwalin said shortly. “And you’re the elf they got to put Thorin through his paces?”

“The very same,” Glorfindel said.

“Then tell me, laddie, what exactly are you going to do if Thorin doesn’t have a sword?” Dwalin growled.

“We’ll get him a new one,” Glorfindel said calmly. “As a dwarven kingdom, we thought you would see to the arrangements yourselves, and find something a little better suited to his reach than what he wore in ceremony the first day. However, we are available to assist if there is no alternative.”

Thorin blinked. True, he wore a ceremonial sword as king, and he knew it was an impractical weapon for battle, but he had never thought that it may be a weapon ill-suited for his own protection.

“Are ye dense? I’m asking what Thorin’s going to do if he’s got no weapon on him _at all_. Then what good will your fancy elvish dancing be?” Dwalin retorted.

“You never seemed particularly concerned about my skills before,” Thorin said archly.

Dwalin turned to him. “ _Before_ you were in Ered Luin, where we could keep an eye on you. This lot is taking you on the road for some daft quest.”

“What would you suggest, Master Dwarf?” Glorfindel said.

“You’re teachin’ him all this fancy swingin’ and prancing around like a damned elf, but fightin’ just as often ends up as a grapple in the mud,” Dwalin snapped. “You’ve started him half way up the mountain and haven’t shown him how to get there. He needs someone that can teach him to fight with his hands.”

Glorfindel considered this, tilting his head from side to side, then reaching some conclusion he nodded towards Dwalin and gestured for him to enter the sparring ring. Dwalin grunted and hefted himself over fence, landing heavily and grabbing Thorin’s arm to drag him into the center of the ring.

“First of all, ye don’t need this,” Dwalin said, taking the wicker practice sword from Thorin’s hand by the “blade” and tossing it to the side of the ring. Thorin blinked at his empty hand, then smoothed his expression, looking up frankly at Dwalin and letting his hands fall to his side.

“I thought you gave up on training me long ago,” Thorin said quietly.

“That was when I thought I might break you,” Dwalin said. He squared off, raising his fists to either side of his head and his left foot forward, the opposite of the starting stance for swordplay. “Now that your lungs are fixed it’s time we teach you how to do something with them.”

Thorin nodded, feeling a trifle breathless even with the recent treatment. It had been years since he, Dwalin and Frerin had played at warriors as children, not since they had gone on to become warriors in truth, and always they had had to be careful with him even though he was the elder.

At first, when Dwalin and Frerin’s training began in earnest, they would try to bring their new lessons back to him, to teach him as much as to practice themselves. But always, too soon, those lessons would end with him gasping for breath on all fours, and he could see the disappointment in their eyes that they could not continue the game. Until all of them had grown up, far too soon with the coming of Smaug, and left such attempts behind them, buried in their new responsibilities. Thorin, with his books, and Frerin and Dwalin ranging far across the lands to seek out those goblins that raided Ered Luin before they could charge down from Moria.

“Now, square off your feet, like that,” Dwalin said, walking around Thorin to kick his legs into position. Thorin mirrored Dwalin, putting his fists up near his face, and Dwalin muttered something to himself as he circled Thorin, making minute fixes to his stance, lowering his firsts and tucking his elbows further in as if he were a marionette to be handled.

“Right. Now, hit me,” Dwalin said, squaring off again across from Thorin. Thorin started, straightening out of his half-crouch to look askance at Dwalin. Dwalin tutted, pushing him back down by the shoulders and once again correcting his stance. “Ye can’t hurt me, Thorin. Treat it like your little elf blade. Swing from the hip, it’s more important than the strength of your arm. Come on, clock me in the jaw.”

Thorin took a deep breath, then wound back and struck, tilting his right hip forward as he extended his arm as hard as he could.

Dwalin didn’t even move. He didn’t duck, or step aside. He simply opened his palm and caught Thorin’s balled fist. The impact shivered up Thorin’s arm, like punching a stone wall and he swore, wrenching his hand out of Dwalin’s grip, dropping out of stance and shaking his hand to try to somehow get the feeling back.

“First lesson: always protect yer hands. Elf, can you get us wraps, and gloves if you have them in this ragtag camp of yours?" Glorfindel, the Balrog Slayer of legend, nodded and as biddable as any servant he ducked back towards the row of cottages. Nevertheless as he retreated, Thorin could see and grumble internally at the grin on the elf’s face.

“Protecting my hands is not always going to be an option,” Thorin retorted, still shaking out his fingers.

“Aye, and we’ll get to bareknuckle fighting soon enough. But you’re a beginner, Thorin, and that’s the next lesson. You’re stubborn, impatient, and too smart for your own good. You think too much, and you’re too proud to admit when you’re out of your depth,” Dwalin said. “I know, because you’re just like your brother, and Durin knows what we’re going to do with _two_ of you running around hacking at things now.”

Thorin remained silent, with Dwalin regarding him before the other dwarf continued. “I only say this now ‘cause the damned elf is gone. I’m not here to undermine ye, Thorin, neither of us are. We don’t trust ‘em, but by Durin’s hairy balls, if this is what you want, then we’re with you.”

Thorin’s lip twitched. “Thank you.”

“Don’t need your thanks. I just need you to fix that guard of yours. If you’re going on the road with a bunch of mercs then at least we’re going to make sure you come out alive on the other side.”

Thorin squared off, tracking Dwalin’s fist with his eyes, but just before he could take his next swing, Dwalin threw up his hands in a block. “Whoa! Are ye crazy? Thorin, I’ve still got my knuckle dusters on! And the hand still aches from catching your damn fist like that. Next lesson, don’t _ever_ do what I just did. Ye should always block or duck away if you can, but I wanted you to get a bit of a sting to understand why _not_ to do that. Here’s the elf now, we’re going to do this properly.”

Glorfindel had indeed returned, and from there, Dwalin demonstrated how to wrap the hand for safety, “Can’t be ruinin’ those good harpist fingers of  yours,” he said gruffly as he tied them off around Thorin’s wrists. Then he shed his own knuckle dusters and took up the leather pads Glorfindel had propped at the side of the ring.

“First things first, gonna teach you how to hit without breakin’ yerself, then we do a bit of self-defense, and then move on to grappling,” Dwalin said.

“You really think you’re going to have enough time for all of that in the next week?” Thorin said, keeping his eyes on Dwalin as he brought his fists up again.

“In the next week? Are ye daft? I’m coming with you! Frerin’s orders, and y’know I can’t say no to him,” Dwalin said with a wink, and bopped Thorin over the head while he stared. “Now, pay attention!”

* * *

Thorin fell face forward onto his bed, having barely the energy to rinse off the worst of the sweat before collapsing. The strategy meetings would begin the next day in the inn, and thank Durin for that, because he wasn't sure he could move his little finger, much less tramp back to the camp.

Every muscle was in agony, and if that had already set in less than an hour after his lessons with Dwalin, then he didn't dare think of the state he would be in the next day. Dwalin may have said they would move on to grappling, but he saw that as no reason not to give Thorin a teaser of what he had been missing of warfare with all his "elvish dancing lessons".

Dwalin's style was brutal, grounded, and took no prisoners. He had seen no problem in letting Thorin feel the impact of an uncontrolled knockdown, if it meant drilling into his head the importance of falling correctly. And, with Thorin's lungs no longer as much of a consideration, he saw no purpose in being delicate with the rest of him. Dwalin seemed content to overwhelm Thorin with everything he knew of dirty fighting, and then just see what sunk in.

Thorin was dozing, already half asleep when he heard the knock at the door. For a moment he thought of ignoring it, but obligation was stronger than exhaustion and he mumbled, "Come in," to the pillow before sitting upright, rubbing a hand over his face for some attempt at rousing himself.

"Already asleep?" Baggins said, poking his head in. "I must say, I'm surprised you're even alive with the beating you took."

Thorin groaned in agreement and fell back onto the bed, need for dignity forgotten. Baggins had seen him in far more compromising positions, after all, panting between his legs. Even the thought of their afternoon in the meadow brought a flutter of interest lower down, though the rest of him was too exhausted to move.

"If you like I, I can go. It's not business, I have a few hours free and thought I would see how you were," Baggins said, his hand hovering on the open door.

Thorin did not open his eyes, but grudgingly raised an arm that felt as heavy as an iron bar to beckon Baggins in, and heard the door shut. The mattress depressed beside him, and he sighed as a hand caressed his unbound hair.

"The early days are the hardest," Baggins said sympathetically. "Not that it's any easier later on, but at least you're used to it by then."

"I should have Dwalin executed for treason," Thorin groaned, though it was muffled by the bedspread. "For killing the king."

"That bad?" Baggins said, rubbing a hand into Thorin's back. Thorin twitched under his touch, muttering in protest. Baggins paused. "If it already hurts now, you're going to be a wreck tomorrow."

Thorin grunted noncommittally. He didn't want to think about the new levels of agony he’d get to enjoy once his muscles cooled and stiffened. The bed shifted and Thorin mumbled as hands began to pluck at his shirt, bunching it up around his armpits except where it was pinned by his stomach

"What do you want?" Thorin grumbled.

“First for you to take your shirt off, which is a fairly constant desire of mine, but I promise this time it has a purpose," Baggins said, plucking further at Thorin's shirt.

Thorin sighed, not sure of where this was going, but the act of pulling the dark blue tunic over his head hid his pleased grin. "Second?" he said, once more lying flat again, this time without the shirt. The fabric of the comforter was slightly rough against his front, and he shifted against it.

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to admire the view," Baggins said, and Thorin could all but hear his smirk. Thorin huffed out a low laugh, barely more than a breath for the energy he had left. But then the bed shifted again and he heard a drawer open, some shuffling and clinking, then shut after a self-satisfied "aha!" from Baggins.

"No, but in all seriousness, you won't be able to get out of bed tomorrow morning without a bit of help. If I may?" Baggins said.

"You have perhaps ten minutes before I fall asleep," Thorin murmured. “So whatever it is, you’d best hurry.”

"I promise that in ten minutes you are perfectly welcome to sleep," Baggins said, and added, "If you still want to."

Thorin did not have the time to ask what he meant, even if he'd had the energy, because a weight settled on his upper thigh, pressing him down into the bed. Before he could ask the meaning of it he heard the sound of a stopper and felt a cool dribble down his back, followed by hands in a wide, swooping arc up and down the length of his spine.

"I don't remember this service from the contract. Do you do this for all your clients?” Thorin said wryly, turning back just far enough to see that Baggins was sitting on his lower back, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, oil from the bedside slick on his hands. He made a face at Thorin, and dug his thumbs in on either side of Thorin’s spine. Thorin groaned deep at the back of his throat, head falling forward.

“A service? This is pure self-interest. We’re negotiating the travel payment for the road tomorrow, which I remind you goes on top of our fourteen percent bonus once we’ve won your mountain back. I intend to fleece you for all you’re worth, but for that I’ll need you to be there, hopefully alive, and not a broken shell of a dwarf,” Baggins said, punctuating his words by putting his full weight on the palms of his hands, sliding them up Thorin’s back.

Coherence abandoned Thorin. If Baggins was set on rubbing the pain out of his muscles, he was far too tired to protest. His exhaustion seemed to do little to dissuade Baggins from teasing, it was not long before all of Thorin’s clothing was on the floor and the Halfling made a special effort around curve of Thorin’s arse. Not that he was one to complain, he had been stuck in a half-crouch for most of the lessons when he was not being slammed to the ground and the muscles there were in agony as a result. Thorin shuddered under the touch, painful at first, but a relief as Baggins’ clever fingers worked away the tension.

“You’ve done this before?” Thorin observed, though the words were slurred by relaxation. It was all he could do to keep from drooling or falling asleep.

“Training was hard with the Rangers,” Baggins said, and scooted up Thorin’s back to begin tackling his shoulders. “Soft little thing that I was, I would have gone to bed in tears every night for an entirely different reason if I hadn’t had the other recruits to help with the pain. They’ve trained many generations, and working out the pain of the muscles is as important working them up in the first place. Our teachers showed us how to tend one another’s wounds, and encouraged us to practice on one another. Though, I must say as the only hobbit, I presented an unusual case.”

“How young were you at the time?” Thorin said, remembering Hamfast’s story but thinking it more polite to let Baggins share what he wished before presuming to quote the details back at him.

“Twenty-one during the Fell Winter,” Baggins said, and try as he might Thorin could find no waver in his voice, no hint of emotion. An old wound, then. “I ran off with the Rangers as soon as the fires were out. Couldn’t bear the thought of being around hobbits, really. I wasn’t thinking clearly those days. I just knew that I would do anything to keep it from happening again. The first few months the Rangers were kind to me, and did what they could to dissuade me from my path, but I was a stubborn lad. Finally in the spring when my head was a bit clearer they agreed to start my training. It was about twelve years after that before I began my Company. I could have started it sooner, wanted to, but I knew that no one would follow a lad who had not yet reached his majority.”

“Your majority?” Thorin said, cracking his eyes open to look askance at Baggins, a horrifying suspicion mounting in his belly. “How old is twenty-one to Halflings?”

“Hobbits, I would thank you to say, we’re not half of anything,” Baggins corrected absently. He thought for a moment. “I know your kind have a fairly complex standard, no? You reach your physical majority at one age, but I understand you’re not considered adults until nearly a century in years, rather like the Elves in that respect. Hobbits are more like Men, our physical and mental majority are at the same age, give or take. I’d say by the standards of Men I was about… twelve years old, when the goblins attacked? Eighteen by their measure when I started the Company. I was born in 2890 and consider myself comfortably mature these days at sixty-one, so you need not fear you’ve spirited a minor to your bed.”

“I had no such fear,” Thorin assured him quickly, but his mind was racing, and the suspicion in his belly was turning to an ache in his breast. “You were only a child.”

“Yes,” Baggins said. His touches had gone from deep digging into the muscle and bone, to lighter caresses over Thorin’s skin. “But it was a long time ago.”

Baggins nudged at Thorin’s side, indicating that he should turn over and he did so heavily, feeling languid and dazed from the ministrations, but no longer in so much pain. The cool air struck his front, making Thorin aware of his nakedness. A bit of drool tickled the edge of his lip and he wiped it away with the back of his arm, speaking thickly. “Do you have other plans for me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is purely medicinal, nothing improper about it,” Baggins said primly, swiping an oiled hand down Thorin’s front, stopping just at his hip and hovering there with a wicked grin, which Thorin did his best to answer.

“You had best be quick, I do not know how much longer I can stay awake, lovely as this is,” Thorin said.

“I’m afraid this cannot be rushed,” Baggins said.  “In all seriousness, you have just as many strained muscles here as in the back, do you feel this?” He squeezed the muscle just above Thorin’s knee. “You won’t be able to get down the stairs tomorrow if we don’t take a crack at this. Just lie back, you can thank me later.”

Thorin would be happy to thank him now, except that a particularly rough pull at the muscles of his thigh brought a whimper to his lips that he swallowed back. He could not tell what was bruises and what was muscle pain, or whether Baggins was putting new bruises on top of the old ones Dwalin had pummeled into his flesh. Again, the pain lessened with time, but there was no sleeping through it and he could only wonder at Baggins own inexhaustible energy and the strength of his hands that he kept this going so long. Thorin lay back, no stronger than a rag-doll in the aftermath, almost as glad that it was over as he was that the pain had lessened.

“Can you take any more? I can think of a few places a little harder to reach,” Baggins said, ghosting a kiss along Thorin’s chest. He traced lower, teasing at the nipple with his tongue so that Thorin arched with a surprised hiss.

“Are you trying to ruin me?” Thorin said, reluctantly opening his eyes. “I do have to sit in the morning, as you so eloquently pointed out.”

“Mmm, that is true,” Baggins said thoughtfully. “I certainly wouldn’t put in all this effort just to leave you sore.” Thorin mumbled an agreement, but the kisses didn’t stop, tracing over his chest and stomach, the ghost of Baggins’ breath pebbling the skin. “Shall I leave you to your rest, or…?”

“What exactly is ‘or’?” Thorin said, and felt Baggins grin against his stomach.

“Just a moment,” Baggins said, and before Thorin could protest the warm weight vanished. He heard clothing flutter to the floor, but was far more interested in testing out just how much of the soreness Baggins had taken from his muscles. A warm, delicious laziness had settled over his limbs, and he drifted several minutes on the edge of sleep when a hand ghosted along his stomach, sliding low, stroking him to hardness.

“Last chance,” Baggins said. “I can let you sleep if you like, but I’d hate to leave a job half done.”

“Do your worst,” Thorin said, smirking with his eyelids closed.

His eyes shot open as slick, sensual heat closed around his cock. The breath _whuff_ ed out of Thorin’s lungs and he is opened to see Baggins sliding inch by inch onto his cock, leaning over to pepper kisses over his chest.

“My worst, your Majesty? I’m not sure you’d survive it,” Baggins said. Thorin swore, breathing hissing out as Baggins slid the final inches to the hilt, gusting a sigh of his own as he settled there, breathing heavily and looking at Thorin with shining eyes. “You did say not to leave you any more sore than you already were.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind but, _ah_ , I’m not complaining,” Thorin said.

Coherence fled at that point as Baggins began to ride Thorin, rocking against him with his face scrunched up with pleasure. Thorin’s back arched and he turned his head to bite into the pillow to muffle his moans. The walls of the Prancing Pony were thin, and the sucking heat around his cock was wrenching moans enough from him without even allowing his mind to stray to the fact it was _Baggins_ riding him, gasping little whimpers of his own, eyes intent as he drank in the sight of Thorin as if he were thoroughly delicious, thoroughly desirable, and the sight alone edged Thorin’s to higher, more embarrassing keens. He did not know why it was Baggins’ eyes that drove him wild, when the touches to his chest, the way Baggins propped himself up as he slid up and down Thorin’s length, should have been enough.

But in all his fantasies he’d never dared imagine that his partner would find _him_ desirable as well. Tolerated, loved, those were all he had hoped, offering what pleasure he may in return in thanks and adoration. But Baggins thought he was beautiful, and in such a ragged state there was not room for any falsehood between them and Baggins watched Thorin intently when he could easily have closed his eyes imagined whatever he wished.

“You have that look again,” Baggins said, lowering himself flat to grasp Thorin by the shoulders, kissing at his neck as he pushed at another angle down the length, burying his face against Thorin’s chest with a cracked groan of his own. “Like you’re surprised to see me.”

Thorin had not the words to answer, only clasped his arms around Baggins’ back, raising himself up enough to press a kiss to those curls. Baggins sighed.

“You’re so beautiful,” Baggins said. “Can you come for me, Thorin? I want to feel you come.”

Thorin’s hands tightened, fingernails digging into Baggins’ back, setting the pace he needed to slip over the edge. It was too much, with Baggins entreating him to come, with the sight of him sweat, those curls sticking in sweaty clumps to the hobbit’s forehead, too much for him to try to make it last longer. Thorin came with a muffled cry against Baggins’ hair, and as he rode it out he planted frantic kisses, wishing it was Baggins’ face, wishing he could take him in his mouth and taste him. But the shivers that wracked Thorin had their answering effect on Baggins’, who breathed a gasping sigh and came on Thorin’s stomach.

“I’ll clean us up on my way out,” Baggins’ assured him, once speech had returned to them both and their frantic panting had turned to an easier cadence.

“Don’t leave,” Thorin said, too muzzy with release and exhaustion to check his own words. He didn’t care, only wanted to feel the sweet press of his lover’s body against him. “Spend the night here. With me.”

He was answered only by silence. Baggins ran a soft cloth over his body, his chest and lower, kissing Thorin on the cheek and lips between strokes. But as Thorin drifted on the edge of sleep and reached for Baggins to join him, he found him gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be quite busy after this until about mid-July, but may have the chance to post one more chapter before then. Your comments are the main encouragement that keep me going, and are so very very appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, a comment would be so much appreciated, as I love being able to put a voice to my readers and know more about what worked or didn't work for you. Either way, feel free to pop around [Tumblr](http://www.avelera.tumblr.com) and cry over Bagginshield with me. "The Company of Mad Baggins" also has its own tag on my blog, which you can follow for news about the story [here](http://www.avelera.tumblr.com/tagged/the-company-of-mad-baggins).
> 
> If you would like an alert for when I publish original novels and short stories, you can sign up [here](http://eepurl.com/dnzuV1).


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